


Ever After

by Jade_Masquerade, kingsnow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Animalistic Sex, Arya has a mini-me also named Arya leading to much confusion about which Arya is being discussed, Direwolf puppies, F/M, Fan Art, Forgetting you were married, Illustrated, Jon Literally Knows Nothing, Longsuffering Sansa, Minor angst really, NSFW Art, Post-War, Three Eyed Bitch Bran, angst with a happy ending and fluff scattered throughout, mostly book canon, thirsty sansa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-07-06 05:47:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 37,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15879795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade_Masquerade/pseuds/Jade_Masquerade, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingsnow/pseuds/kingsnow
Summary: Jon gets brought from the dead one too many times and loses many of his memories. He returns to Winterfell only to find he has a wife desperate to get him in bed and a child that keeps biting everyone.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collaboration between me and Jade_Masquerade, who I have adored for like a year and a half. I’m so pleased I’ve gotten the chance to work with her! This fic starts off fairly angsty, but know that it gets progressively fluffier and sillier. I’m writing Jon and she’s writing Sansa. Hope you all like it <3

(A sketch of Jon and Sansa running off to get married)

(Jon and Sansa standing in front of the heart tree)

* * *

 

 

The night before Jon was due to ride out to war, he sat at the desk of his solar with a piece of parchment and ink. The castle was still asleep, and dawn would not come for a few hours, but Jon was unable to sleep. It had been an eventful evening. Sure he would never have another chance, he’d unburdened himself of a secret he thought he’d keep till his grave. To his great surprise, his torturous love was returned, and after pulling himself away from her, he had asked her to marry him. Alone, past midnight, the two of them had stood before the heart tree and said their vows in front of the gods. That night, he had forgotten about everything outside the walls of their bedroom. 

 

Only after Sansa had fallen asleep in his arms did Jon worry about the future. Though perhaps worry wasn’t the right word. He had little anxiety about what was to come. He had already died once, and he knew that he had only stolen time from the Gods to fulfill this mission. He didn’t labour under the illusion that he would be returning to her. He did not fear death, only what his death would do to Sansa. It would have been easier for her if he’d left well enough alone. But he knew she would hope, and that such hope would be in vain. Jon had already made her a widow. 

 

He wanted to leave her with something, so he poured his heart onto the page.

 

_ Dearest Sansa, _

 

_ If you’ve finally found this, either I’m much worse at hiding things than I’d thought, or a long time has passed by and I haven’t come home. But if you’re reading this now, it also means you’re still alive, and that makes my death worth it. I wish I could have been there with you. I imagined a whole life for us. If all we got was that one night, you should know that you sent me off to my death a happy man. _

 

_ I do have some regrets. There are things I haven’t told you. I’m due to leave in an hour, and there’s little time left for romantic nonsense.  _

 

_ I was clear last night, but I want to write it here somewhere more permanent, so you’ll have proof that we were real. I love you, Sansa. And something that I’ve been much less clear about is for how long I have loved you. From the first moment you arrived at Castle Black, you have been the most important person in the world to me. I’ve been in torment for the past year, since long before we found out such a thing was possible.  _

 

_ Last night was a dream. This love had tormented me for a year, and I thought I would die without ever getting to even kiss you. I have never been so happy as when you became my wife. We only got a few hours together, but they meant everything to me.  _

 

_ Please know that more than anything I wanted to be here for you. I wanted to rebuild the castle with you and fill it with our children. We  would rule Winterfell as father once did. We would teach them the old way, and we would teach them how to survive. Perhaps one day we’d even find a litter of pups in the wolfswood like me and Robb once did. _

 

_ I hope you can find that happiness when I’m gone. You and Bran are all that’s left of House Stark now, and he will need you by his side during the long winter to come. _

 

_ Yours, For Always Now, _

_ Jon _

 

* * *

Sansa climbed up the ramparts, at last alone. She didn’t wish for even only Bran to witness her tears, and it seemed trivial to burden him with such when he spent most of his time exercising his abilities in an attempt to search out where the Night King and his army were headed next. No, he had quite enough on his plate already with the fate of the entirety of Westeros. He didn’t need this on top of that.

 

She unfolded the parchment Bran had given her with no more directive than simply telling her the time had come for her to receive it, and before she could question, his eyes rolled back and went white. She read over Jon’s words again as snowflakes fell softly, obscuring the sharp strokes of his writing until she brushed them away with trembling fingers.

 

He loved her. That was certain.

 

In Jon’s absence, she had started to wonder if what they had shared had been real at all, except for the very obvious evidence that at least something of it had been. She set her hands on her belly, feeling the curve of it through the thick wool of her dress that could no longer conceal it. It would be only a couple of moons now until she would be able to hold their babe in her arms. She wished that Jon were there to pull her close, that he could feel the babe kick, that he could share in her thoughts about names and keep her company as she sewed swaddling blankets.

 

But those dreams were almost as silly to have now as the ones she’d held when she went south to King’s Landing years ago.  

 

Despite Bran’s reassurances Jon lived, Sansa could not help but doubt. More rumors spread through Winterfell with each passing day, whispers of the King in the North crushed beneath an onslaught of wights or fallen out of the sky from the back of a dragon. And Ghost had started to behave strangely as well, wrapping himself around her whenever someone came near, laying beside her as she slept, and never allowing her out of his sight, even forgoing his opportunities to run free and hunt in the wolfswood.

 

“What pains you, child?” Old Nan emerged from the doorway behind her. “Don’t tell me it’s the babe. I’ve had enough of my own to know the difference.”

 

Sansa offered her a tremulous smile. She had done her best to hide her tears over these last few moons, when they’d started to hear little and less of what waged on the battlefields in the North, when no word at all came from Jon. Whenever anyone paid notice, she had waved off her emotions, saying how the maester had assured her these kinds of reactions were to be expected anyhow, but she did not think it usual to constantly carry around such sadness in her heart. “I merely miss him, is all.”

 

“Merely?” the woman repeated. “Missing someone is no mere thing.”

 

Sansa nodded in agreement and swiped away the hot tears that threatened to spill over. She knew some of their men had ceased expecting Jon to return and given him up for dead, but not her. Never her.

 

Old Nan patted Sansa’s hand. “Not to worry, my sweet. This war in the south will be over soon, and Ned will come home. You’ll have all the time in the world then.”

 

She didn’t bother to issue a correction. The woman who had lived in Winterfell longer than Sansa could remember, longer than she had been alive, or anyone had been, for that matter, called her Cat more often than not nowadays, and instead of worrying her, it had begun to make her smile. “Thank you,” she said, when she had nothing else to offer.

 

She only carried her hope, and she prayed that she didn’t lose that along with all the rest.


	2. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This lovely chapter was written by Jade_Masquarade who will be writing all the Sansa chapters. It’s a combination of Fluff and Angst I like to call Flangst.

 

Sansa gazed out the window that overlooked the training yard. At least the sky was bright with more blue than grey today, the clouds betraying no hint of coming snow. She murmured the comment aloud with no one to hear but the sleeping babe at her breast. Behind her, in his wheeled chair near the fireplace, Bran was lost in a vision.

Ever since the war had come to an end, Bran spent more and more time amid his visions. Whether they were of the past or future, near or far away, Sansa did not know, but he was her only family left now, so she hoped he found the happiness they sorely lacked among them.

These chambers had become a refuge for her, a respite from her duties and the prying eyes that had accompanied her everywhere she went in Winterfell as she had grown round with child in the moons before Arya’s birth. Here she could be alone with her thoughts, with Bran who asked no questions… because she suspected he alone truly knew the answer to the one she was well aware caused the most whispers.

 _A wolf,_ she said whenever meddlesome minds inquired, her tone making it clear it was rude to ask the question of any woman, but particularly the Lady of Winterfell and Queen in the North. And now that the babe had been born, despite looking like a Stark through and through, with not a hint of the blonde hair of the Ryswells, the sharp, hooked nose of the Lockes, the rough features of the Umbers, the comely smile of Rickard Forrester, or any visible signs of any of her other suitors, the questions continued to abound.

None of that talk, nor Arya’s existence, seemed to deter them though. Nary a week passed where a raven did not arrive querying about her hand, or one was not asking her to sup with them, and those were the more courteous requests. Less polite were those who offered to warm her bed at night or bluntly proposed their assistance in providing her daughter with a brother who could serve as heir to the North.

She never told a soul of how she no longer had a hand to give, so to speak. Even if she wanted to, she didn’t know if she could find the words to describe how she had pledged her vows to Jon beneath the heart tree the night before he had ridden off with the Dragon Queen to defend them from the Night King’s advances as death neared their doorstep. Even then, it had been more lovely than any ceremony in the Sept of Baelor, Jon more handsome than any golden prince in the cloak she had sewn him.

Nor did she ever plan to tell of how they had consummated their marriage in her chambers after, one fervent coupling followed by another less hurried, in which Sansa used her hands to map the planes of Jon’s body and commit them to memory, never wanting to forget the way his hair felt between her fingers, how she seemed to fit so perfectly against him, the heat of his skin that chased away any winter chill that crept in.  Jon had made her peak thrice that night, once with his mouth, and again and again during the act with his hand slipped between them.

It had only taken that night for Jon’s seed to take root. In the time since, she had wished with every fiber of her being for Jon to come home more than half a hundred of times: the day the maester had confirmed her suspicions she was with child, for the birth of their babe, when she first smiled. Besides Arya, she had been left scarcely a reminder of Jon and the passion they shared at all. She found a single letter among the things he left behind, long after he’d been expected to arrive home, filled with the words a stoic man like Jon held in his heart but seldom spoke aloud. She kept it on her person at all times, the parchment folded and unfolded over often enough that it had begun to wear thin at the seams.

She refused to accept that those were his last words to her. After Jon left for the war, she had at long last commissioned a statue of Arya for the crypts to place beside father, the vault empty. The stonemason had asked a few moons ago if she wished for one in Jon’s likeness as well, and her rebuke had sent him scuttling away, stuttering profuse apologies.  

“Sansa.” She turned away from the window to see Bran blink in that way of his which made it seem as though he knew everything about all of history and humanity except where, when, and who he was with at the moment.

She wondered what Bran saw whenever he slipped away, if he ever truly slept or dreamed. She knew the dreams of her own, of Jon holding her again, of him dropping a kiss to the crown of their daughter’s head, of them being a family, were no more than fanciful reveries, but they helped sustain her through the war nonetheless.

The babe, too, stirred at his voice. She may have been their sister’s namesake, replete with her recent habit of biting anyone she disliked or found unfamiliar like the tiny wolf she was, but she adored her uncle and the rides they would take, being carted about the keep. Sansa enjoyed nothing more than the moments when her daughter’s face lit up whenever she sat in Bran’s lap, and he looked upon her with a kind of peaceful ease she had not seen since he had been a boy climbing the walls of Winterfell. Sometimes she caught him whispering to her babe, sharing the secrets he otherwise kept locked inside, and knowing her daughter helped to ease his mind was no small comfort.

She had learned long ago not to ask of what he saw and trust that he would tell her within time, so she swallowed down any of her questions.

“Take me out to the wolfswood,” he said after a brief silence, during which Arya cooed for his attention.  

“The godswood?” she asked, wondering if he misspoke. Bran spent more time near the heart tree there than even their father had.

 “No. The wolfswood.” Bran gave a ghost of a smile. “Life waits for us there.”

  _Jon._ She banished the thought from her mind as quick as it had come. She had spent moons worrying what had become of him, praying to gods she knew did not exist, longing for his safe return, all for naught.

“I’ll call for—” 

“No,” Bran said again, before she could give the name of one of their guards. “Only you, Sansa. Call for your handmaiden to stay with Arya.”

She nodded, feeling her breath quicken, but not out of fear or dread. She had built her strength back up after Arya’s birth by going on walks with Bran until she was finally capable by herself, and she found the quiet comfort of their solitary walks almost as soothing as the sound of the hot springs running through the warm walls or the feel of Arya’s weight in her arms.       

Sansa ensured the babe was soundly asleep again before she called in one of her handmaidens to stay by in case she woke… and Ghost, of course. He never left her or Arya’s side, fixing his red stare on anyone who threatened to near them, and snapping when they dared to anyway.

No one stopped them as they walked out of the keep and down the ramp that had been built over the stone steps or across the training yard, some of the guards and men-at-arms nodding in deference to their queen, but otherwise remaining silent. She had noticed that habit of theirs whenever they were in Bran’s presence, and it always made her secretly amused, since she presumed their reticence was due to caution in permitting him to know too much, and they could never fathom the kind of infinite knowledge he already possessed.

The castle gates opened for them, the path that led to the trees mostly cleared of snow and covered in gravel intended to prevent falls on the ice that laid beneath. Sansa slowed as she pushed Bran over the rocky trail, humming and singing some of the songs she’d learned he still loved, ones Old Nan and their mother had sung to them when they were hardly more than babes themselves, back when their world was whole. She had found herself singing ones of Queen Naerys and Prince Aemon more often than not lately. If the Dragonknight’s survival of the vipers and the mountains of Dorne didn’t give her hope, she didn’t know what else could.

“A bit further,” Bran said, directing her off the path and into a field that had been full of flowers in the summer of their youth. She slowed again, waiting for his guidance, and when none came, she stopped and stepped around the side of his chair to see Bran’s eyes gone white again.

“Bran!” she cried in exasperation, the quiet of the wolfswood seeming all the more deafening now that she was essentially alone. She had been so certain there would be _something_ here, _someone_ , and in their absence she wished for her brother to be conscious, she wished for Ghost—

 And then she heard the crying. Her ears had become attuned to such in her months as a mother, and she left Bran in the clearing to follow the soft sounds.

 Stale snow and dead branches cracked beneath her boots as she drew nearer, the cries no longer a singular sound, but one composed of several varying pitches…

 How she managed to spot them amongst the mess of twisted branches and mud that must have served as their den, she knew not. There were two the dull grey of dirty snow, one she suspected was as red as the leaves of the heart tree beneath the grime that clung to his coat, and another as black as the muck itself. They tottered about on their tiny legs, climbing over each other, mewling for their mother who was nowhere in sight.

 They were even younger than the pups Robb, Jon, and Bran had brought home that day so long ago, smaller still than Lady had been when she held her for the first time. It was easy to gather them up and fit them in her arms, harder still to walk with them back to Bran as they squirmed. By the time she reached the clearing again, though, they seemed quite content to be nestled against her chest beneath the edge of her cloak.

“You found them,” Bran said. His smile was more knowing than surprised, and it brightened when she placed the reddish one in his lap.  

“You could have told me this was why we had to come out here, you know,” she said, unable to keep the grin off her own face as she watched Bran hold his pup close and one of the pups in her arms climbed up to lick her cheek.

“I couldn’t have,” Bran said, reaching for the rest of the pups to free Sansa’s hands. “There are some things you must find for yourself.”

She knew better than to roll her eyes at whatever that meant, and she knew that Bran knew how she felt without any words necessary.

“There are two girls for Arya and I, just as before,” she mused aloud, though she was referring to a different Arya this time.She held up the black one by the scruff of his neck as he stared back at her adoringly. “And I wonder who he might be for?”

“He’s for Arya’s brother,” Bran said without looking up at her, absorbed by scratching behind the ears of his pup.

“Arya’s _brother?_ ” Sansa echoed, but Bran seemed not to hear her. Perhaps it was better that way. She had learned not to ask much about what he knew and how he knew so.

The walk back to the castle seemed to take no time at all. Bran held the pups in his lap as she wheeled him along, her mind spinning with what this could mean since she didn’t dare share her thoughts aloud. Instead they spoke of what they could name the pups, from all manner of serious to those that made them laugh, their breath frosting in the cool air.

Bran had been teasing her as they returned through the gates of Winterfell, which had been left open without even a guard present on either side.

Sansa continued to walk, every one of her senses sharpened and aware of the posts abandoned, the eerie hush over the castle, the lack of swords clashing or horses whinnying or women splashing as they drew buckets up from the well. But Bran said nothing, except for soothing words intended for the pups in his lap, so she forced herself to be not afraid, until she saw what had drawn the attention of all those in the castle.

An enormous direwolf stood in the courtyard, almost as large as Ghost, with a coat of shaggy grey fur.

 _Lady,_ Sansa thought for a single exhilarating moment, until her heart faltered as she recalled Lady laid in the crypts below.

But then she saw the girl beside the wolf, a girl who by all reason also should have laid in the crypts, who was not so much a girl any longer, and beside her sister, whom everyone else but her it seemed had given up for dead, stood Jon.

 

 


	3. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovely artwork by Kingsnow as always :)

 

Handmaidens, stable boys, washing women, kitchen cooks, men-at-arms—it seemed everyone in Winterfell filled the courtyard. Despite the crowd that had gathered, no one made a sound, no one but the direwolf pups mewling in Bran’s lap.

 

Sansa glanced over her household, her eyes trailing past one group and then another in quick succession, until she realized they were waiting for her, her directions, her words, her to do _something_ to reassure them now that half of House Stark had evidently come back from the dead. For a moment she thought of fleeing to her chambers, where she could weep with joy, where she could speak freely, where she could laugh with relief until her sides ached, without all of Winterfell to bear witness.

 

Then her babe— _their_ babe—was placed in her arms, and she found her strength again.

 

Arya came to her first, leaving the side of the massive wolf— _Nymeria,_ Sansa knew now. Her arms opened wide as she broke into a run. Sansa had thought a thousand times of how she would reunite with Jon, the words she would use to tell him of their daughter, the way she wouldn’t have to tell him she loved him, he would just _know,_ but she had never considered the possibility of explaining her daughter’s existence, her and Jon’s relationship, and all else that had happened to her sister.

 

“Sansa,” Arya said, her voice a mere sob against her cheek as they embraced, and yet her name had rarely sounded so sweet coming from her sister. “Or should I say Your Grace?” For all she had grown, her grin, amongst other things, made Arya still look remarkably like the untamed, carefree girl Sansa remembered. “You have a babe? You’re married?”

 

“Both are true,” Sansa admitted with a sheepish smile of her own, trying to avoid sneaking a glance at Jon. “I’ll tell you all of it later,” she promised, far too aware of the number of eyes on them and the ears listening. “And no titles are necessary.”

 

“I have much to tell you as well,” Arya said, stepping away to hug Bran and revealing Jon standing a ways behind her.

 

Beside him, Ghost tangled with Nymeria, rolling onto his back as his sister sniffed at him, their tails wagging in glee, yet he seemed hesitation to approach, so Sansa took the first step.

 

As Sansa closed the distance between them, her eyes lingered on each part of her husband in turn. He would need a bath, that much was certain, but beneath all that grime, the mess of long, tangled hair, and his beard which had grown to a length that could rival Tormund’s, she had no doubts that there was the sweet, compassionate man she had fallen in love with, the man to whom she’d vowed herself to beneath the heart tree, the man who had fathered her child.

 

She wrapped him in as tight an embrace as she could manage with their daughter caught between them. He smelled of sweat and muck and something else earthy whose scent she couldn’t place, and he was just as warm as ever, the feel of his solid body against hers heating her more than any fire or furs could. She allowed herself to press her cheek to his, her hand to stroke through his soft curls, her eyes to close as she basked in how easily they still fit together after all this time.

 

He didn’t say a word as she clung to him, but she felt his hands press against her lower back to hold her close and his hot breath on her neck, his face buried in her hair.  There were no kisses or whispered words of love, but that was to be expected with the entirety of the household out gaping. She wanted his hands on her, all of her, wanted him to lift her so her legs could wrap around him, wanted to feel her tongue slide against his so perhaps he could understand just a fraction of the way she felt inside, but she forced herself to breath deep and remain calm. There would be time for all of that later.

 

With difficulty, she separated from him before their behavior aroused suspicions. She saw he still wore the cloak she had sewn him, even if it was a bit tattered and worse for the wear. She fingered one of the holes that had torn over his heart, beneath which she knew laid a crescent shaped scar on his chest.

 

“It appears your cloak needs mending, Your Grace,” she said, using his formal title as a tease. He had always implored her never to invoke it, calling it as much a waste of breath as the crown that sat on his head was a waste of valuable metals that could be utilized to forge knives and swords for their defense instead.

 

“Aye. It’s had a rough go,” he said, his voice deep and rough as though he’d hardly used it in all the time he’d been away. The sound of it stirred up things inside of her that had seemed dormant for a long time in his absence.

 

“I can take care of them easily enough. I don’t think you’ll be needing to wear it much now anyhow,” she said, her cheeks flaming as her words came out much more coy than she intended.  

 

He gave her a tentative smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Thank you, my lady.”

 

“And this is Arya, Princess in the North,” she said, suddenly shy as she met Jon’s gaze and his eyes raked over their daughter for the first time.

 

She bit her tongue before the invitation to hold her slipped out. She wanted to tell him the babe was his, but there would be time for that later, behind closed doors, when perhaps Arya would be asleep in her cradle, and her sister Arya, Bran, and the rest of Winterfell would not be looking on…

 

Jon blinked, and even his attempt at an expression of happiness faded.  

 

“Arya?” Arya repeated, inserting herself between them and seeming to have all the words Jon appeared to lack, “Your daughter? Her name is Arya?”

 

Sansa nodded.

 

Arya’s bright grin could have melted all the snows that still lingered. She snatched the babe from Sansa’s arms and held her out in front of her for inspection.

 

“Oh, she bites!” Arya exclaimed, laughing as she shook out her wrist.

 

“Sorry,” Sansa said, but Arya didn’t seem to care one bit about her niece’s disobedience. If anything, she appeared to revel in it.

 

Instead of handing her back, Arya tossed her lightly in the air and quick as a cat caught her again.

 

“Arya!” Sansa gasped and opened her mouth to chastise her sister, but her daughter let out such a squeal of delight that even Bran gave a short laugh.  

 

“She looks so much a Stark, doesn’t she? She really looks nothing like you at all, Sansa!” Arya babbled on, spurred by baby Arya’s giggles. “That’s right, not at all!”

 

Jon stood by, watching them, his face inscrutable.

 

Sansa turned away, determined to show Arya how to hold her namesake proper, and by the time Arya was done grumbling how there was no possible way the babe enjoyed laying passively in the crook of her arm more than she did being flung about here and there, he was gone. 

 

 

 

Sansa stole from her chambers under the cover of night, making her way through the halls with no one to witness her flight but Ghost at her side. She wore only a dressing gown over her thin shift, and her daughter slept beneath it, wrapped in the blanket she’d sewn her and embroidered with the pack of wolves that belonged to House Stark, all six of them. As she swiftly made her way, she mused how she would have to add a few more to the edges now.

 

It had been a couple of hours since she had seen Jon now. Once her wits had returned to her in the courtyard, she had ordered the kitchens to prepare an early dinner as he and Arya must have been famished, and as soon as they completed their meals, she asked her own handmaidens to run along to draw up baths for each of their arrivals. Both demands had been necessary, of course, but she had also issued the commands in the hopes of the castle falling asleep early.

 

She already dreamed of the day this would no longer be necessary, when she could freely go to her husband as she pleased, or they would share their chambers, but for now, this would have to do. It was a minor encumbrance, really. If she had known Jon was anywhere within riding distance of Winterfell, she would have pulled herself from her bed and gone out on her horse to him nights ago.

 

All the things she meant to tell Jon ran through her mind as she wondered which she should broach first. Perhaps she should lead with why he had only learned of his daughter’s existence this very afternoon, of why she had decided against sending a raven to the warfront to convey such sensitive information while he was surrounded by allies who could easily turn foe. She thought of telling him how in her darkest moments she had found light in knowing she had a piece of him in their daughter, of how she knew she could never give up and how she had to keep fighting for her sake.

 

Of course, in some ways she may have need of no words at all. She could _show_ him how she still felt the way she had the night they wed, how her desire for him had only grown while he had been away.

 

She expected by now he would be finished bathing, that his skin would be scrubbed of dirt and whatever else, that he would be smelling of pine soap and the scent of the fire that burned in his chambers, his clothes fresh and made in the kind of simple styles he preferred, not befitting of his status as king.

 

Or perhaps when she arrived he would just be pulling himself from the tub, scarcely concealing his naked form in only a drying cloth, the water dripping down his body…

 

Sure, presently he looked more like one of the men from the mountain clans of the North and the Vale or a member of the free folk than the King in the North, but maybe that was not such a bad thing.

 

She thought about how his beard would feel against her thighs, the roughness contrasting with the soft slide of his tongue. She remembered the way his fingers had filled her better than her own ever would, and imagined bending to her knees before him, falling into bed with him…

 

She tried to push those images out of her mind. It wouldn’t do to arrive at his door with her skin flushed, her breathing quick, her smallclothes damp before he even laid a finger on her. Or would it…? She blushed, feeling even more embarrassed about her lack of knowledge than the night they first had laid together considering she now had a babe of their own and yet still knew so little of the relations between a husband and his wife.

 

At least then Jon had been kind and understanding as she knew he would, sweet and gentle even when she knew it had pained him to go slow. Things would be different now, though. There would be no need to move gradually, or to hesitate, or to savor each moment, not when they could couple every night. There would be all the time in the world now to try things, to learn each other’s bodies.   

 

She felt the slightest hint of guilt for desiring Jon so desperately when he had only just returned home, but she had spent moons yearned for him in more ways than one, and on their wedding night Jon had ardently shown her he had pent up as much or perhaps more unrequired passion for her as she had possessed for him. She was certain that once she had an opportunity to speak with him and clarify any matters of his concern, it wouldn’t take long to rekindle that feeling and begin again where they had left off.

 

It had been so long since then, though. She knew she looked a bit different than before, with her breasts fuller and the faint silvery lines left from carrying Arya still lingering on her belly. She hoped Jon wouldn’t mind, the logical part of her brain arguing he likely would have added a few scars of his own by now, yet she couldn’t help but worry.  

 

She wouldn’t know for certain until she saw him, and now that she found herself at last outside his door, that time was now. She knocked softly.

 

Jon opened the door, and as she slipped past him into his chambers, she was all too aware of the way his eyes caught on her and darkened.


	4. Jon

Even now, when Jon closed his eyes, all he saw was vast stretches of barren land, all covered in snow. Melisandre had brought him screaming back to life thrice before dawn stole across the land. The last time she’d died doing it, and he’d woken alone with funeral pyre burning next to him. He woke with one mission in his mind, and nothing else but vicious revenge would satiate a hunger that felt undying. He had lost so much to the Others, he felt it burning inside him, even if he could not remember who or what he was mourning. Everything that came before returned to him in flashes, the memory of his childhood at Winterfell was a shadow that flickered through his mind. 

 

When it was all over, he had walked through the wilderness for weeks, hunting what little game there was. He fully intended to walk off the edge of the earth and never return before he came upon something that brought him back. Half buried in snow was a skinny sword that brought back a flickering memory of love and he felt warm for the first time he could remember. He dug it out and kept it close to him until he found his sister half a hundred miles away. “ _ Needle,” _ Arya had said, eyes filling with tears, as she put her sword back in it’s empty scabbard. Arya fit easily into his arms, and with her in his charge he had a reason to push on.

 

Each night when they made camp, Jon would light a fire and Arya would tell him stories about what she’d done in the years they’d been separated. Sometimes she would reminisce about their shared childhood too, but that became more and more rare when she realized how little of it he remembered. He knew it hurt her that he did not have the same memories she did, memories she held so close to her heart. Jon had tried his hardest to pretend he did, and part of him did remember, but that was bone-deep, buried so well in death and ice that only occasionally things would click into place for him. 

 

They slept under his cloak, a big furry thing that helped keep Arya warm. Jon didn’t have to worry so much about the cold anymore, but she appreciated it. “When you first showed up in this, I thought you were father. He had a cloak just like it,” she told him one night as they looked up at the stars. “Or maybe… did you find it at Winterfell?” she asked, hopeful. “I wondered if maybe my old things would be there too. They’d help me remember, I think, what it was like to be Arya Stark.”

 

“No. Sansa made it for me,” Jon said, not remembering until he’d said the words. Just saying her name made him feel slightly warmer, though he wasn’t sure why. 

 

“Sansa’s home? And… she dressed you up like father?” Arya asked with a laugh, “I guess she misses him too. I miss Sansa, you know. So much… I never thought I’d miss her. We used to fight, such stupid fights. I thought I hated her, Jon, but we were both just kids. Father was right. I didn’t realize how much I needed her.”

 

At night, more often than not, Jon would dream of home. His dreams were more real than any of the foggy memories Arya had awoken in him were. He saw flashes of Winterfell, of a beautiful woman growing thick with child. Often she wrapped her arms around him, or ran her hands or a brush through his hair. He would watch her in the night, listen to her sing to a baby with thick black hair as she rocked her to to sleep. Sometimes she would feed him right from her hand, bits of meat that tasted far richer than any of the game he and Arya could manage to cook up over their campfire. 

 

Jon hadn’t put the truth of it all together at first. He only remembered fragments of the dreams in the mornings. Jon knew he was in love with the woman who haunted his dreams. He could feel the warmth of that love each night. It was what pulled him back to her. But she was only an idea to him now, something that could be. He knew who Sansa was, his half-sister, the one who Arya spoke of with alternating annoyance and adoration, and he knew that she would be waiting for them when they finally returned home. But as soon as he’d seen her in the courtyard of Winterfell, he’d known she was the woman of his dreams, the one who lit the way home. 

 

And now, this woman whom his body knew he loved carried held that baby in her arms. “I just thought you’d want to see your daughter without prying eyes upon us,” she said, before leaning over and kissing him hungrily. His body still craved hers, and he couldn’t help but kiss her back. Sansa was the same height as him, and it made kissing her easy. The way she leaned against him implied implicit trust. She was not worried he would falter and she would fall. Jon lost himself in that kiss, the feeling of her tongue against his, and then her soft mouth sucking on his lips.

 

“My daughter?” Jon asked when Sansa finally pulled away, though he knew almost immediately that the child he’d been dreaming of was his. His head started to spin, and his limbs felt heavy. Somehow he made it to the bed before his legs collapsed underneath him. 

 

What sort of man has a child and forgets about her?

 

“You didn’t think I’d taken a lover when you left for war, did you?” Sansa asked, following him into the room. She raised an eyebrow. Before he could think of a response her lips descended down upon his again, her kisses softer now, but longer too. She still held the child between them. When she pulled apart, he couldn’t help but notice how softly she was looking at him. The love in her eyes was hypnotizing. He wondered what he’d ever done to be worthy of it. When he finally looked away, he realized he was holding the baby in his arms. He was not used to holding children, but she seemed to fit perfectly into his chest.

 

“Sansa… I…” Jon tried his best to speak, but words evaded him. He looked down at the baby again. Arya had his grey eyes, and a full head of thick black hair even though she couldn’t have been more than a year old. Arya smiled at him as sweetly as Sansa did. The longer he stared at her the more excited the baby got, and soon she was joyfully kicking her legs and hitting his chest. It was so obvious this baby was his he wondered why he hadn’t suspected anything, what with the way Sansa had been eyeing him at dinner. “I’m sorry.”

 

“Sorry? For what?” Sansa took his face in her hand and pressed another kiss to his lips. Then her mouth drifted, her lips running across his jaw. “We’ll need to trim your beard, I think,” she said, nuzzling her nose against his cheek. “You look like a mountain man. But you’ve been gone so long...”

 

It had been a long time since Jon had felt a woman’s touch, and his body could not help but respond to hers, even with a baby in his arms. But it was all too much at once, he was struggling to stay afloat. “I’m sorry, my lady, but I don’t recall… I’ve forgotten a lot of things. I didn’t realize I had a bastard, or a lover, waiting for me.”

 

At that, Sansa pulled away. “A  _ bastard _ ?” 

 

“I’m sorry if the word offends you? I’ve grown used to it.” Sansa was much more sheltered than he was, but he’d long known that pretending to be something other than you were didn’t change the truth. He had meant never to father a bastard, but he had, and he was not unhappy to hold such a child in his arms.

 

“The word doesn’t offend me. Do you really not remember?”

 

“Remember what?”

 

He could see the hurt on her face, but there was nothing he could do even though nothing hurt his heart as much as seeing tears come to her eyes. “Our wedding. The night you left…?”

 

“No,” he said.

 

Sansa sucked in a breath, and just as quickly as she’d begun to weep she grew as hard as steel. “I see.”

 

Jon wished he could tell her that he’d dreamt of her, that his body or soul or  _ something _ had been with her even though he wasn’t. But he was not one for romantic speeches, and his throat felt tight and his mouth dry. Such a thing — dreaming of somebody you barely remembered, pining for them despite thinking them a fiction — was not sensible, nor was it easy to explain. 

 

“I should go,” Sansa said, when he did nothing but stare at her. 

 

Sansa reached for Arya, but Jon shook his head. He wasn’t ready to give up the little girl who looked so much like him yet. He tightened his grip on her. “No. Stay. Please.”

 

Sansa exhaled and nodded her consent, looking like she was holding back tears. 

 

Jon sat down on the bed, and Sansa followed suit. It seemed the two of them were equally incapable of coming up with what to say next, so they both looked at their child. “I’m sorry. I wish I did remember. But you’re not the only thing that death has taken.”

 

“I know. Arya told me how surprised you were when she told you were named the King in the North… but I didn’t think… I should have put it together.”

 

“No. Don’t blame yourself. Normal husbands don’t wander off like that.”

 

At that, Sansa laughed. Jon stole another glance at her from the side of his eyes. She wiped fresh tears away with the sleeve of her dress. Even in the low light, even with her eyes puffy and swollen, even with the sadness that had taken root inside of her, Jon was still struck by how beautiful she was. It still seemed unbelievable that he’d ended up lucky enough to marry her, let alone was foolish enough to walk away from her, or forget to come home. 

 

“This has been a hard day. There’s been so many new things. My father isn’t truly my father, but my uncle. My aunt is my true mother. You’re not my sister, but my cousin, and now my wife… and we have a child.”

 

“It does seem sort of unbelievable,” Sansa conceded. 

 

“Let’s just… stay here for awhile. Sleep. Stay with me, for awhile, while I get my head wrapped around this.”

 

Sansa nodded. Jon had been near sleep when she’d come in, and he buried himself under the furs again, this time bringing his little daughter with him. Sansa took off her cloak, hanging it across the back of a chair. She was wearing a only a shift. Jon’s eyes gravitated towards her as a green boy’s might, eager and lustful. He knew that shift, silk with tiny grey direwolves stitched into it. He must have seen it a dozen times in his dreams.

 

“Do you like it?” she asked when she caught him looking at her. “It’s new. It kept me busy while you were gone.”

 

“It’s… pretty,” Jon said as Sansa got into bed beside him. If their daughter wasn’t in between them, he might be tempted to tear the thing off of her. He contented himself with running his hand through her long hair. It was so soft.

 

She was a virtual stranger to him, and if not that, his sister, but they were wedded and bedded, weren’t they? It wasn’t wrong that he felt this connection to her, even if he couldn’t explain it. Between them, Arya fell asleep. Sansa kept staring at him, though she kept her promise to be gentle and said not a word. Jon couldn’t help himself and pressed one last kiss to her lips. She sighed happily against him and pushed her forehead to his. He couldn’t be sure how long they stayed like that, though eventually the fire died and soon after that the candles began to burn out.

 

They fell asleep like that, nestled together as a family.

 

This was not the life Jon Snow had expected to return home to, but it was one he could grow used to.

 

 


	5. Jon

That morning he was awoken by baby Arya crying and hitting his chest with tiny little fists. For all the wonder he’d had the night before at having a child, he was entirely unsure of what to do in this situation. Jon sat up in bed and picked Arya up, but she kicked and wailed as though she hated him more than anything else in the world. Despite the fuss their daughter was making, Sansa slept contentedly beside him. Jon knew he should probably wake her, he was sure that she would know exactly what to do in this situation, but he was still uncertain how to deal with his sister-cousin-bride and decided quickly that it was his turn to deal with this.

 

Holding the baby away from his body so she could no longer grab his beard and pull, Jon began to bounce her. She stared back at him, her grey eyes showed her confusion.

 

“I know you don’t know me, but you’re my daughter,” Jon told her solemnly. “As your father, I’m asking you to stop crying.”

 

It was all very calm and reasonable, and for a moment his measured words seemed to distract Arya enough for her to stop wailing. But she did not look particularly pleased that Jon was her father, even though she’d been happy to cuddle against him last night. Maybe when she was tired she would be happy to go to sleep in anyone’s arms, so long as they were warm.

 

Jon wracked his brain for what he knew about babies. Nothing came to mind. But after a minute he realized that babies, like all creatures human or otherwise, got hungry and had to eat. They just couldn’t tell you when they were hungry. Proud of himself for having such a realization, he scooped Arya into his arms and marched to the nursery, forgetting in his haste that it was unkingly not to properly dress before leaving his chambers. He’d become fairly uncivilized in his time in the wild. His gaurd gawked at him, but neither he or the chambermaid coming to rekindle the fires said anything as he passed them.

 

When he reached the nursery, Old Nan was sitting in a rocking chair, rocking herself back and forth as she knitted a sock. She smiled when he saw him with the baby. “I should have known he was yours. He has the look of a Stark. Fathered by a wolf indeed...”

 

“Old Nan?” Jon said in amazement, staring at the woman who’d helped raise him, “I thought you...”

 

“Thought I was dead, did you? I’m stronger than you’d think, Jon Snow. Now give me your crying child,” Old Nan dropped the needles and grabbed the baby as Jon passed Arya to her. She placed her hands around Arya’s waist and bounced her in her lap. Jon was shocked at how spry Old Nan still was.

 

“I thought the Boltons killed you at the Dreadfort with the other prisoners,” Jon clarified. “But I’m happy you’re still here.”

 

“So is your daughter,” Old Nan said as Arya stopped crying. “She’s hungry.”

 

“Does she need Sansa for that?” Jon asked, not sure when babies stopped breastfeeding and moved onto other foods.

 

“She’s old enough for oats and honey. The princess is one of the only ones in the castle who gets honey now… you know, Lady Sansa had problems breastfeeding, and so did the milk maids. Your daughter is hungry, and she bites.”

 

“She hasn’t bitten me,” Jon said, proud of himself. She could obviously sense that he was her father.

 

“She’s probably scared of your beard. You look more like a wild animal than a man.”

 

Jon shrugged sheepishly. She may be a little old lady, but she had been the woman who’d raised him. “There aren’t any razors beyond the wall,” he said defensively.

 

Old Nan merely gave him a dismissive look. “I don’t know how you’ll make an heir with that creature on your face. Lady Sansa is unlikely to want to touch you while you look like that.”

 

Strangely, it was Jon that was holding them up in that regard. Sansa had thrown herself at him last night. He had been entirely overwhelmed by the situation, and he wondered if he’d offended her by pulling back. Perhaps bedding Sansa would have helped bring back his memories, but last night he’d been so tired and so enamoured by sleeping on a featherbed, and the baby had been right there.

 

“I’ll take care of the babe, King Snow,” Old Nan said, shooing him out of the room.

 

Jon walked to the kennels to go see Ghost and the pups, contemplating everything that had led him here, wondering if he would ever remember.

 

Sometimes memories did come back. Once he had awoken in the middle of the night. Beside him Arya was looking up at the sky. He followed her gaze and saw the sky alight in blue and purple and green, and beyond that shone a thousand stars. That had brought back the memory of looking up to see a battle overhead. Blue and red fire, and then afterwards how everything would fade away, leaving only smoke and rosy gloom. But lying there next to his sister, he’d been happy. He didn’t want to think of those long nights north of the wall before dawn stole across the sky. The war had been agony. Many had perished in the hell Daenerys and her dragons left behind. That was not something Jon wanted to remember at all.

 

He wished he could recall the sweet memories of falling in love with his forgotten bride, if not for his sake then at least for Sansa’s. She deserved better than a broken man who had forgotten her. He recalled the night before, how the moon had streamed in through the windows, and how Sansa’s shift had billowed in the soft light, inviting him to take it off. She was his wife and they did not need to steal moments to be alone together, and yet the affair had been a secret one. Of the few things he knew about his marriage, he knew that there was still something forbidden in their romance. He needed to ask Sansa more about it, and he regretted not doing that the night before. Only he had been bewitched by the way her blue eyes drank in his body, and by the weight of his child in his arms.

 

Arya was waiting in the kennels, two pups in her arms. The other two were cuddled against Ghost.

 

“Where’s Nymeria?” Jon asked. The first night Ghost and Nymeria had been inseparable. Jon understood, he had been loathe to let Arya leave her side since he’d discovered she was alive.

 

“She went out to hunt with her pack,” Arya said. She passed him a pup. “You know, these aren’t direwolf puppies. They’re just… wolf puppies. Ghost doesn’t seem to mind though, he’s taken to being a father easily.”

 

“How do you know?” Jon asked. “I didn’t think Bran and Sansa found their mother?”

 

“Wolf dreams,” Arya said, “their mother wasn’t meant to have pups, I don’t think. Sometimes parents reject their young, Maester Sam said when I asked him about it.”

 

Jon smiled. In all the excitement he’d forgotten that Sam was still here. He’d have to go see him later. He needed to discuss these new revelations with somebody, and he didn’t think Arya could be trusted to be neutral. Besides, it was like as not that he’d discussed Sansa with Sam before he went off to war. Sam could help him understand how he’d come to marry his sister.

 

“It’s kind of annoying Sansa named her baby after me,” Arya said, giving the pup a little kiss. “Every time somebody says ‘Arya’ I assume they’re talking about me, and my head whips around, but half of the time it’s about the baby.”

 

Jon glanced at Arya, who despite her complaints, was grinning. It was obvious Arya liked the attention of it. “She missed you,” Jon said.

 

Arya raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think so. She seems far more interested in catching up with you than she does with me.”

 

Arya was a talented spy, and for a moment Jon wondered what Arya had seen the night before. But Arya surely would have said something if she’d seen Sansa lean over and kiss him, or if she realized that Sansa had slept in his chambers.

 

“You were pretty distracted by little Arya,” he said at last, eyeing her with suspicion.

 

He could guess that he was not supposed to tell Arya that he had married Sansa, though he wasn’t entirely sure why their marriage had to be so secret and hushed up. People called his daughter a princess, and little Arya had a mother who loved her, but Jon could not help but be annoyed by the fact that his daughter was a bastard in the eyes of the castle. He may not remember making his vows, but he planned on abiding by them till his dying day, and he didn’t understand why the whole world couldn’t know they had wed in haste.

 

“Yeah, you’re right. She looks like me. I wonder who her father is… I asked Bran, but he kept avoiding the question and then he went into a vision. I’ll get it out of him, though. I have my ways.” Arya grinned deviously and then laughed.

 

“You should try just asking her,” Jon said.

 

“You know, don’t you!” Arya said. She examined Jon’s expression and gasped, “you do! You know who it is! You two must have gotten close if she told you. Or… no, tell me you didn’t walk in on her!”

 

“No. I didn’t walk in on her.”

 

“Then she told you? Is it dreadful? Is she ashamed? Nobody seems to know. Sansa said she wed a wolf in the forest… Jon, I don’t think little Arya is going to buy that when she grows up.”

 

Jon sure hoped Sansa wasn’t ashamed of him. Jon shrugged. “It’s not my secret to tell, little sister. But I’m sure if you ask her, she’ll tell you. When she’s ready.”

 

“You’re no fun.” Arya sighed and picked up one of the puppies. “They’re lucky they have Ghost and Nymeria as surrogate parents. Baby Arya isn’t old enough to raise a pup. She would probably teach it to be a biter.”

 

The puppy Arya had passed him felt good in his arms, but it didn’t feel nearly as nice as his own daughter had, even when she was wailing this morning. “Nymeria has grown awfully wild, little sister. I think she might teach the pups to be more ferocious than your niece would.”

 

“When I first saw her in the Riverlands I barely recognized her,” Arya confessed. “But her pack… it reminded me of the old pack, when all the pups were together when we were still at Winterfell. There was one that looked like Lady and Shaggydog and Summer. Nymeria misses them. I can feel it.”

 

“I miss them too. And Robb, and Rickon.”

 

Two of his brothers would never return home. Once he had been full of youthful excitement, eager for an adventure. He’d thought he would find it beyond the wall as a Ranger. And he had found adventure, but it hadn’t turned out how he thought it would. He had only just met his daughter, but he knew that one day she too would leave Winterfell, and that knowledge hit him suddenly. She wasn’t even a year old, it was not something he needed to worry about now, and yet that realization of fatherly love had hit him hard last night.

 

Jon set the pup down and watched as he ran to Ghost and cuddled in with his brother and sisters.

 

“You never talked about what happened to Rickon,” Arya pressed. She walked towards Jon and put her pup back on the ground. “I told you about Robb.”

 

“I don’t really remember,” Jon said, though that was a lie. He was hiding behind the holes in his memory to save Arya from the image of it. Rickon was just a baby, really.

 

There was a brief silence and then Arya grabbed his hand. “Let’s go get breakfast,” she said.

 

He was hungry and could not protest. His daughter did not make an appearance at breakfast, but his wife did. She sat at the centre table with him, looking out over their household. Arya sat on Sansa’s other side, and today Sansa gave her sister her full attention. Jon couldn’t help but smile at that, more often than he should, perhaps, as Arya furrowed her brow and asked him what was so funny. Jon sat in silence and listened to Arya regale Sansa with tales of adventure both beyond the wall and in Essos.

 

Eventually Arya took an interest in some blacksmith sitting at one of the tables at the back of the hall, the same one who had enthusiastically greeted her the day before. Jon could not recall his face, though he knew he was not Mikken’s son. He was sure it was just one of the people Arya had encountered on her many journeys. Or else… his sister was a woman grown now, and perhaps… no, no. Jon would not even think of that, even when he thought of much more depraved things when it came to his other sister.

 

When he finally had Sansa to himself, he leaned in close to whisper in her ear. “Arya wants to know who little Arya’s father is,” he said.

 

“A wolf,” Sansa said, repeating her mantra, mischief in her eyes.

 

“I don’t know how much longer I can lie to her.”

 

“It’s not a lie. When we were together you were… very wolflike.”

 

There was a glimmer in Sansa’s eyes that stirred him and he had a sudden urge to kiss her. Sansa must have sensed it, for her eyes darkened. But lest they do something hasty, Jon pulled away and turned to Bran, who sat beside him, silent and aloof, and not at all like the sweet rambunctious brother he had left behind.

 

Nothing was the same, was it?


	6. Sansa

Sansa bringing baby Arya to bed.

* * *

Sansa set aside her sewing as Arya returned to the solar with Bran, who held baby Arya on his lap, and the pack of direwolf pups at her heels. The repairs of Jon’s tattered cloak would have to wait; she was certain it had in fact developed a few new holes thanks to the sharp, tiny teeth of the pups and the way they seemed to enjoy nestling themselves into its folds. 

“They enjoyed the fresh air,” Arya said, arranging Bran in front of the fire before she took the baby into her arms. Over the past few days since her sister had returned, she had already become rather attached to her namesake, rarely permitting anyone else to hold her whenever they were together in the same room.

“I can see that,” Sansa said, looking over their muddy coats and the pawprints they left on the stone floor. She rose to her feet and reached for a ratty old cloth to dry them.

She snatched up her pup first, who was already trying to lick herself clean. She had named the sweet little girl Naerys, after the princess from one of her favorite stories. Naerys already reminded Sansa of Lady, and she knew she would detest being dirty the most while the others seemed to revel in it.

 “ Sorry,” Arya said sheepishly, watching Sansa as she rocked the babe to sleep and placed her in her cradle.

“That’s all right. They’re not meant to be cooped up all day with us in here, and they were getting anxious to stretch their legs.”  _ Much like you and Jon,  _ she thought. She had never quite understood that way Arya and her brothers had when they were children, but now she knew it was the nature of wolves. Besides that, by now she had dealt with a colicky daughter enough times that she could not imagine any kind of mess fazing her much any longer.

“They’re getting quick,” Arya said. “It’s almost like chasing cats again.”

Sansa smiled at the memory. It had been years since she’d thought of that and how embarrassed she had been by her sister’s strange behaviors in front of the queen and the others in King’s Landing she’d held in such high esteem then. Now she was more grateful than she ever could have imagined for her sister’s water dancing lessons and how they had helped her survive all this time.  

“Ouch!” Sansa squealed as the pup they’d deemed Arya’s nipped her wrist with her needle-like teeth. “You—you!” she stuttered, when she realized she had no more knowledge than that of what her daughter’s pup might be named. She had considered coming up with something herself, but it seemed out of place for her to do so. She knew what it was like for a girl to name her direwolf, that the relationship was no insignificant thing but rather something substantial and special, and she did not wish to take that experience away from Arya.

“I wish I knew what to call you!” she said instead, ridding the pup of mud despite her tiny squeals of protest.

“Wolfie,” Bran said, finally breaking his silence.

“Excuse me?” Sansa and Arya said at the same time.

“That’s what Arya will name her,” Bran said simply. “Wolfie.”

“ _ Wolfie?”  _ Sansa repeated, the name just sounding silly on her tongue. “Like, a wolf? Surely you jest.”

Bran merely shrugged. “She’s your daughter.”

“Wolfie,” Sansa called. The pup immediately glanced up at her, large brown eyes wide as though in apology. There was simply no way she could resist that look. “I… I suppose that is your name.”

“I told you,” Bran said, his usual monotone voice marked by a touch of smugness.

Sansa set Wolfie down and picked up the little black pup instead, attempting to clean him as he happily wriggled and wagged his tail at all the attention. “ _ Don’t  _ tell me what his name will be,” she said. “I don’t even know whose pup he is.”

A smile played around Bran’s lips. Nothing like the ones he gave to Arya or his own pup, whom he refused to announce his name for as of yet, but a smile nonetheless. “You do know, you merely haven’t met him yet.”

“What does that mean?” Arya asked, gathering up Wolfie in her arms in lieu of her niece.

“Bran seems to think this pup is intended for Arya’s  _ brother _ .”

“My brother? Jon?” she frowned, and then she realized. “Oh… Oh! I didn’t know you were…”

“I’m  _ not,”  _ Sansa said decisively, shooting Bran a glare.

“I suppose I ought to stop calling Jon as our brother anyhow when he is truly not,” Arya said, sadness seeping into her voice. They had told Arya the truth of Jon’s parentage the night they had returned to Winterfell. Evidently Jon had forgotten to share that minor detail with her on their trek home. “‘Cousin’ sounds so strange, doesn’t it? And no matter who fathered him, he’ll always truly be our brother, right?”  

“He will certainly always be a brother to you, Arya,” Bran said, a slow smirk now spreading across his face as Sansa shot him another pointed look. 

“And what in seven hells does  _ that _ mean?” Arya asked again, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Why did you say it like that? Is the ‘Three-Eyed Raven’ not permitted to have a brother?”

But, as if on cue, Bran’s eyes had gone white again, and Sansa would have cursed him aloud if her daughter had not been in earshot. She was likely far too young to remember and learn such things, but still she was certain she would have enough exposure to them in time if her sister Arya continued to spend copious amounts of time with her, so she figured it was best to avoid them for as long as possible.

“Do you manage to understand him?” Arya shook her head.

Sansa hesitated. She could have told her sister that all the time she had spent with Bran had been for naught, that she was no better now at interpreting his cryptic moods and mysterious phrases than when he had first come back to Winterfell from beyond the Wall. But she no longer wanted to hide the truth, nor deceive her sister any further. Besides, she almost felt like she might enjoy having another person with whom to share her secret. So she steeled herself and went ahead and said, “Arya… Jon is Arya’s father.”

Sansa thanked the gods that Arya was holding her daughter’s pup and not her daughter herself as she dropped the pup to the floor, where she landed nimbly on her feet and scampered away to join her siblings in gnawing on some discarded kitchen scraps. “Jon? As in  _ our  _ Jon? Not Jon Umber or Jon Karstark or some bloody wildling also named Jon?”

“Our Jon,” she confirmed in a small voice.  _ My Jon, _ she thought, _ but I know even less how to tell you of that. _

“I asked Jon! I asked him, and he—he…” The look of bewilderment and betrayal on her sister’s face hurt almost as much as watching Jon ride away into the unknown with the northern armies at his back had. “Is this because he’s a  _ Targaryen?” _

Sansa shook her head. She had once asked herself the same question, but concluded she didn’t think so, not on her part at least.

“How did this happen?” Arya questioned, her surprise and anger quickly morphing into disgust.

“Jon…” Sansa began. How could she explain the way she felt when she had ridden up to Castle Black and Jon had swept her into a hug that for once held no threats, no underlying motive? How could she tell Arya how safe and loved she had felt there in his arms, then and every time since? How could she describe the way she had fallen in love with him, bit by bit, as they stood side by side to gather allies and take back Winterfell and fight to protect the North, until she could no longer deny the way she felt for him and how it was nothing like the kind of affection a sister has for her brother, and everything like the passion a wife has for her husband? “He’s… just the kind of man Father would have wanted me to marry. He’s brave and gentle and strong.”

“ _ Marry?  _ You married him?” Arya made a face as though she’d swallowed a whole lemon. “And Jon… participated in this all?”

Sansa nodded, feeling her face redden. There was no way she could tell Arya how fervently Jon had kissed her the night before he left, how he looked as he pledged his life to her beneath the heart tree, or how he had made love to her afterwards, all soft touches and sweet words.

Arya looked as though she wished to say more, but then baby Arya gave a cry from her cradle and her face softened as she went to pick her up.

“No, no, I’m not upset with you, not one bit,” Arya cooed. “Come on, let’s get away from all this nonsense. Would you like to go see some shiny swords in the armory? I bet you would…”

  
  
  


Sansa returned to her chambers. There was always more to be done in Winterfell, but she figured she deserved a well-earned rest while she had the chance, especially since only the gods knew where else Arya would take her daughter after the armory.

She smiled thinking of them together, happy her daughter had a chance to be surrounded by her family as they had been as children. She hummed to herself as she removed the pins from her hair to let it fall softly around her shoulders, and just as she was about to remove her thick woolen dress and lay down, there was a knock at the door.  

“Jon,” she said, catching her breath in surprise, and then feeling it stutter again as she drew her eyes down his body. It was clear he had just come from the training yard. He had tied his hair up, she noticed as he reached up to scratch behind his neck with one hand, and he held his discarded shirt that was now in tatters in the other. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing is the matter. I… I just felt I had to see you, my lady,” he said, blinking as he seemed to suddenly come to the realization. She watched as his skin flushed red, and she followed its descent, past the scars on his chest and the muscles of his abdomen to the thin line of dark hair there that snaked down to the ties of his breeches. “Is this… all right?”

“Of course,” she said, stepping back to give way for him to enter her chambers. She found herself so warm as he closed the distance between them that she wished she had taken the earlier chance to remove her dress.

She expected him to sweep past her into the room, but instead he pulled her into his arms.  

 


	7. Jon

Tormund had been eager to show Jon off to the young wildling lads in the training yard. Much to Jon’s embarrassment, ‘Jon Snow’ had turned into something of a local legend. All sorts of stories were being told of his valour and bravery,  most of them completely false. When he was a little kid he remembered wanting to be like somebody out of the songs, to be Prince Aemon the Dragonknight reborn. He wondered if Prince Aemon had ever heard his song sung, and whether it filled him with the same sort of mortification. He realized now that all the heroes of his childhood had likely never been as great as he imagined. Tormund’s son didn’t even seem to know that Jon had once fought against the wildlings, and Tormund seemed to have forgotten that Jon had once taken up arms against him.

 

No, Jon Snow was not all good, and he never had been. But he was glad he hadn’t ever had to put Tormund to the sword. He was fun to spar with, if nothing else. Tormund had whispered that Jon needed to let him win, because this was his boy, and Jon had obliged. Surprising nobody, Tormund was not a good winner. He had struck Jon in the ribs, and ripped his shirt open, and as they made their way back through the castle, sweaty and in need of baths, Tormund continued to mock Jon. He realized then that he was more Florian the Fool than he ever had been Aemon the Dragonknight.

 

On his way back to his chambers, he passed by Sansa’s door, and something possessed him to stop and knock. He wasn’t sure what he meant to ask her, until he saw her face looking up at him, and he knew suddenly what he wanted. He took Sansa’s face in his hands, and leaned over to kiss her. This time it was Jon who took Sansa by surprise, but she seemed to be as lost in the kiss as he had been a few days before. He’d lost track of how long he’d been kissing her by the time she grabbed his arm and pulled him inside the room, closing the door behind him.

 

“People could have seen,” she said.

 

“Aye. Only, I don’t know why we’re keeping it a secret.”

 

Sansa just laughed, shaking her head. 

 

_ You know nothing, Jon Snow,  _ he thought. 

 

Sansa looked at him with a soft expression on her face. “So why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” She asked. Her eyes drifted down, lingering on his exposed stomach. “And why are you so sweaty?”

 

“Tormund was giving me a beating in the training yard.” Sansa continued to inspect his torso, seemingly fascinated by the bruises that were starting to form. She ran her index finger across the expanse of his stomach. “I’m sorry… if I took you off guard. I didn’t mean to presume.”

 

Sansa looked up at him, her eyes wide in surprise. “Oh, Jon,” she said, and then she laughed again, shaking her head. She ran her fingers through his hair and brought him closer to her, kissing him again. This kiss lasted longer, and Jon found himself pulling her tight to his bare chest. It felt natural, like his body had been made to fit hers. 

 

Unlike his past brushes with women, Jon was not shy. His muscles seemed to move without him having to think about what he was doing. They remembered how it had been, once, and they had longed for her all this time. He had felt some of that the first time she had kissed him, but he’d been so overwhelmed by everything. This time it was different. Their daughter wasn’t here, and he’d spent the past few days since his return hungering for her embrace, every time he looked at her he nearly salivated. 

 

Sansa pulled away from his embrace, and looked him in the eye, pressing her forehead against his and nuzzling into him as if they were both wolves. “I missed you,” she said, and there was anguish in her voice. She brushed her lips against his again, and Jon could feel her smiling. 

 

_ She thinks I remember,  _ he realized. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was only skin and bone that remembered her, that his mind was still lost somewhere beyond the wall. But he thought of the dreams he’d had, how her warmth had guided him home like a signal fire. His heart remembered her, didn’t it? It certainly wouldn’t let him forget. The fire had burned out by the time they fell to the bed, and the room was lit only by flickering torches and the candle at Sansa’s bedside. Jon wanted to see her properly spread out on that bed, to cherish every inch of her and commit it to memory, but he hadn’t the patience to wait any longer. For him it had only been a few days, but his desire for her raged in the pit of his stomach.

 

“I told Arya about us,” she said when his lips began to trail down her neck. “So this doesn’t have to be a big secret anymore, if you don’t want. We meant to tell everyone… but… then you didn’t return, and I had no proof of anything…  _ oh _ …” her voice cut off as Jon hitched her skirt up. He looked up at her to make sure he hadn’t done something wrong, but her head was thrown back and her eyes closed. The sight of pleasure on her face only made his blood run hotter. 

 

There were blue roses embroidered along the edges of her silk stockings. Jon ran a thumb across the stitching in appreciation. “Pretty,” he said.

 

“They were for you,” Sansa said. 

 

“I don’t know if they’d fit me. My legs aren’t as long as yours, I’m afraid, nor as slim.” Delicately, Jon removed one of her silk stockings and placed it beside them on the bed. She really did have amazing legs. He pressed a kiss to the inside of her knee and ran his lips down to her ankle. 

 

Sansa laughed softly. “No… on the night we married, you told me you often imagined me standing in front of you in nothing but silk stockings.”

 

Jon sucked in a breath. That visual  _ was  _ captivating. He wondered what other ideas he’d come up with during all his time fantasizing about playing with his sister. 

 

Sansa seemed to realize the effect it had on him, for she continued: “you’d have me bend over so you could admire me like that for awhile. My hands touching the ground… and you’d take me, just like that.”

 

“I have a good imagination,” Jon said, his voice low. 

 

“The best,” Sansa agreed. “We can still do that, if you want.”

 

Jon pulled Sansa’s other stocking off, running his thumbs against the sides of her leg, grazing her so softly he was barely touching her. He felt Sansa shiver beneath his touch. “I don’t think I have the patience for that,” he admitted before pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. He heard Sansa hitch her breath before his lips touched her cunt. Jon could get used to this. He could spend a whole lifetime teasing her like this, and pleasing her in equal measure. Perhaps he truly has died beyond the wall, because she tasted as close to heaven as he could imagine.

 

Sansa sighed as Jon pushed her legs further apart. By the time his tongue ran against her clit, she was doing her best to suppress soft little moans. That sound brought back a memory of something almost familiar, though he couldn’t quite make out all of it. A whispered  _ I love you _ and a cold breeze against his exposed skin. Jon’s need for her grew stronger, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could put off sinking into her cunt and feeling her around him. Jon put his hands under Sansa’s ass and brought her tighter to him, lifting her up off the bed. He knew now he’d tasted her before. The taste of her brought back a feeling of home and longing he could feel in his bones. 

 

Jon wished he’d removed her dress now, because he wanted to feel the weight of her breasts in her hands, and feel her nipples harden against his tongue. He wanted to nuzzle his head against her stomach, and get a look at his wife, even in the low light. But it was true, he couldn’t wait for all of that, and neither could Sansa, going from the way she’d begun to moan his name and thrust her hips into his face. 

 

Call it selfish, but Jon wanted them to come together. He wanted to feel her tighten around him as she did. So he pulled away from her, and unlaced his breeches. Sansa watched as he pulled them down his leg, fascination in her eye. He stood naked before her for a moment, contemplating his next move, and Sansa stood in front of him. Jon removed the layer of her outer dress, abandoning it on the floor beside his breeches. But fuck the rest, he would make do. Jon pushed her towards the bed and wrapped his arms around her, running his hands along her waist and breasts. She reached her hands behind herself and ran her hands through his hair, as if she wanted to make sure he was still there, that this was really happening, that it wasn’t all a dream…

 

Jon wasn’t sure if this was real either. He kissed her neck and inhaled the scent of Sansa’s hair, a scent that immediately made him feel at home — rosewater and lemon oil, he knew, somehow. He leaned in close to her, pressing his hard cock against her shift, unable to stop his body from shifting against Sansa, eager for friction, for some sort of release…

 

When he was no longer unable to contain it, Jon laid on his back. He grabbed Sansa by the arm and pulled her onto him. She gave him no resistance, happily laying on top of him, kissing him again. Jon hitched her skirt up to her waist and ran his fingers along her slick cunt. She sighed against his mouth, and looped his hair through her fingers and pulled at it. 

 

Finally, Jon guided his cock inside her. Slowly Sansa moved her hips down, taking her time as she filled herself with him. “ _ Oh Jon _ ,” Sansa said again, moving her hips up again, and then down. They moved like that for awhile as Sansa got used to it, moving unbearably slowly on top of him. Sansa put her hands on Jon’s chest and pushed herself up, so she was sitting on his cock. She sat there for a moment, tightening her cunt around him, relishing the sweet agony it was bringing him. 

 

Jon grabbed Sansa’s hips and began to guide her up and down, helping her set a pace. She didn’t object to him taking charge, acquiescing easily to his desires. He wanted to see her squirm, so he reached his hands under her dress, and brushed a thumb against her clit as he pulled her down faster and harder with each stroke.  Then Sansa truly began to unravel, her face twisting in pleasure, her cunt fluttering around him. And then he felt her come around him, heard her moan his name loud enough for anyone passing by in the halls to hear. He had not had his fill yet, so he flipped her onto her back and thrust into her from his knees, with her long legs wrapped around his hips. He held on for as long as he could, not eager to leave the warmth of her cunt, pushing into her harder than he had before. At long last, he spent his seed inside her and collapsed on top of her.

 

“I love you,” Jon said once he’d cum, kissing her hungrily. And it was true, because deep in Sansa’s cunt Jon had discovered the mysteries of the universe, or at least remembered a sliver of something that had come before. And then, as he kissed her, he recalled other kisses, hurried and eager before the heart tree… 

 

It took the two of them awhile to catch their breath. He buried his face in her neck, and she wrapped her arms around him, keeping him as close as she could. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope this satisfied those of you who have been thirsty since chapter 3 ;)


	8. Sansa

The sky was streaked with ribbons of orange and red as the sun began to rise over the horizon when Sansa woke.

       Jon murmured in his sleep and nuzzled his face into her hair as she shifted on his chest. During the course of the night she had lost her stockings, her shift, all of her clothing, but if anything, she was too warm rather than cold with Jon’s body beneath hers. She restrained a giggle as she felt Jon hard against her hip. It seemed he would never tire, and she could not blame him, for she did not think she would ever have her fill of him either.

She and Jon had coupled thrice last night, and that did not include the turns he had taken supping at her cunt. She stretched, feeling pleasantly sore, and she blushed when she felt how some of his seed had dried on her thighs. Neither of those slight discomforts, though, could mar the pleasure he had brought her or the happiness or sense of completeness she felt.

Perhaps best of all, there had been moments last night where it seemed as if Jon had  _ remembered.  _ He may not have understood her words the first night she had gone to him, but he certainly seemed to understand this, to recall all the ways she liked to be touched, to know how to make her feel safe and cherished and loved just as he always had.    

In any case, many of her doubts of the past few days had been alleviated. Jon had made it more than obvious that he desired her. After all she had been through, that had been gratifying enough. Jon hadn’t seemed bothered one bit by her larger breasts or the faint lines on her belly where her skin had stretched a bit; he had only wanted more and more of her by the way his hands and tongue had seemed to slide over them. She was certainly not complaining, and her hands too had seemed wroth to part with him, holding him close, sliding down his back as he thrust into her. And although there were tangles in his hair and beard, she had enjoyed the way it had flowed through her fingers and relished even more the rasp of his beard over her soft skin.  

“Hi,” she said when he opened his eyes.

“Hi,” he said, his voice rough from sleep, but it excited her the same way it had been low and husky last night. “I hope you don’t think I behaved too untoward last night.”

She laughed. “No, not at all. It was just as I wished things would be between us when you returned.”

“Was it like this… the times before?” he asked.

Her heart sank a bit as she realized his body may have remembered some things, but there were more still his mind did not. “The _time_ before,” she said.

Jon blinked. “The _time?_ Only once?” he said, sounding mightily disappointed.

She nodded. “Just our wedding night. You left to go north the next morning.”

He furrowed his brow. “Then I plan to spend as much long as it takes to make up that lost time to my wife,” he vowed.

“I would like that,” she said, smiling.

“What would you like, precisely?” he asked, his hands wandering over to her and cupping her behind so he could pull her flush against him.

Sansa felt her breath hitch as her breasts pressed up against his hot skin. It seemed utterly obscene that after having him three times in the past night, she could still want him again. “Are you asking for my desires?”

“Maybe,” he said, dropping kisses down her neck that were only slightly distracting.

She found it absurd that they shared a babe, yet she struggled to untie her tongue enough to voice her most wanton wishes to him. She decided to begin with a simple one. “Well, I do like your idea of myself wearing nothing but my stockings, so I can at least put them to their intended use.”

“Hmm, I would quite like that too,” he murmured, nibbling at her throat with his teeth.

“And perhaps in the godswood, beneath the heart tree or in the hot pools,” she said. She had always thought of the idea as a romantic notion when she had been a girl.

“Yes,” he said, his thumbs rubbing slow, steady circles into the small of her back, “What else?”

“Your cloak,” she said, her voice scarcely more than a breathless whisper. “I—I’ve pictured you wearing your cloak, and nothing else…” 

Jon’s eyes darkened as she spoke, and it thrilled her how much her words seemed to arouse him.

“I thought maybe…” She felt her face redden, but she made herself continue, “Perhaps… you could take me like a wolf.”

“I thought I was already very wolf-like last time,” he grinned.

“Well, I rather enjoyed it,” she said, though she had no less enjoyed the languid way Jon had rolled his hips against hers a mere few hours ago after their first two frantic rounds. 

“Sansa,” he whined as she drew her nails down his back.

Her cheeks flushed darker, but the desperate way he said her name encouraged her to go on. “And I wondered, perhaps, if you might like for me to take you in my mouth as you’ve done to me…”

Jon groaned. “I think that’s plenty for a start.”

She gave in and kissed him, agreeing without words that that was enough for now, that they had forever to engage in anything either of them may wish.

Jon pulled away and stroked her hair. “How did I come to be so fortunate?”

She smiled sadly. It would have been a sweet sentiment if she had not suspected he was asking in seriousness.

He seemed to sense her twinge of melancholy though, since then he said, “I know some of it. How you escaped the Vale to come north to Castle Black, how we took back Winterfell from the Boltons, how we rallied the North together to protect them against the dragons from the east and Cersei in the south.”

“Yes,” Sansa said, nodding in encouragement, but with the way he spoke of the events she could tell he learned of them second hand, from Arya or others since she had been back, or that they existed in his mind merely in broad brush strokes, and that the details had been lost to death. 

Those were the memories whose losses she mourned. How could she describe the way she felt when she saw him that first time they reunited, the first time she knew she was safe at last after so many years as a pawn, a captive whose existence depended on her name and her pretty face? How could she explain the way they had taken an unspoken solace in each other, meeting in the godswood of Winterfell after they reclaimed the castle, sharing in the relief and comfort of home twined with the grief of having found no sign of Arya there after all? How could she tell him of all the time they spent traversing the north, paying visits to the lords, smallfolk, wildings, and mountain clans alike, convincing them of the threats that encroached from every side, and the long nights they spent together planning and plotting and dreaming of spring?

“I wish I could recall more,” he said, shaking his head when he realized she remained silent.

“It’s all right,” she said, placing a soothing hand atop his. She knew she should be thankful he had come back alive and with her sister, which was more than many in the North could say of their husbands and brothers, sons and fathers. “There are more important things than that.”

Jon didn’t appear convinced, so she slipped from beneath the furs to retrieve his letter from her dresser drawer. She felt Jon’s eyes on her every step of the way. His gaze made her feel pretty, loved as always. At least that had not changed.

She handed it to him and watched as he read, looking for any expression of recognition as he scanned the parchment, hoping perhaps his own words could help. When none of that light came, though, she fought hard to keep the disappointment out of her voice. 

“You can keep it if you want,” she offered. “It seems a bit silly now that you’re here after all.”

“No, it’s yours,” he said, rolling the small scroll up and giving it back. “I may not remember writing these words, but I meant what I said to you that night, Sansa. I love you, and I wish for this life with you, if you’ll still have me.”

She felt tears threaten to prick her eyes for an entirely different reason now. “Truly?”

“Truly,” he nodded, and he kissed her when no more words than that would suffice, just as she had done for him earlier. He gestured back to the letter that laid curled in her hand. “Tell me, wife, what are these ways in which I wrote of how you tormented me?”

She laughed. “You tormented me as well, although I do not suspect you knew of it.”

He drew her back into his arms and pulled her close. “How so?”

“We fought one day,” she said, glancing up at him from where she laid on his chest and toying with his beard. “It was the first blizzard after we returned to Winterfell, and I thought it might be a bit of fun to relive one of the snowball fights of our youth.”

“So you started one?” Jon asked, clearly amused by the idea of her doing such a thing.

“I did,” she admitted. “But you effectively made it come to an end.”

“I wasn’t cross with you, was I?” He frowned.

“No,” she said. “When you caught me, you pinned me to the ground and held me there beneath you until I promised to behave like the Lady of Winterfell when you let me up.”

“Oh,” Jon said, evidently surprised by his past self’s forwardness. “And then what happened? Did we…?”

She shook her head. Nothing had happened then, of course. He had let her up and she had giggled and asked him what he knew about being a lady, to which he snapped he knew nothing and wished to retire to his chambers immediately to change into dry clothing, but Sansa still remembered how long it had taken to slow her breathing and how she had been unable to push from her mind the strangely pleasing way it had felt to have Jon’s weight on top of her.

“Did you know then how I felt for you?” he asked.

“No,” Sansa said truthfully. “Not for a while.”

“When did you begin to suspect?”

“A few weeks after the blizzard, after the temperatures warmed and some of the snow melted before it froze over again and turned all to ice, I slipped and fell into the pools in the godswood,” she said.

Jon gasped as though he had watched the image unfold in present time beneath his very eyes.

 

“You helped me climb out and carried me back to the keep, without a concern for your own clothes being ruined or the men who had awaited your instruction in the training yard.”

She remembered how she’d shivered in the frigid air, but Jon had been warm as he held her in his arms and she pressed herself against his chest and huddled beneath the edge of his cloak. It had been just her luck that her ladies had chosen that particular day to clear and scrub the soot from the fireplace in her chambers, leaving the room cold and barren.

She’d been full of apologies as he took her into his chambers instead—for having ventured out alone without Brienne or any of her other guards, for dripping water all over the fresh rushes, for the gross, sloppy sound her soaked woolen dress had made when she’d dropped it to the floor. He’d followed them by a few of his own, of how sorry he was to have ordered Ghost away from her side and out to hunt in the woods while the weather was clear, as if the direwolf’s presence could have averted the disaster, for not having a changing screen in his relatively spartan room.

“You refused to part with me to retrieve a new dress from my wardrobe while I was in such a state, so you gave me one of your tunics instead,” she continued on as calmly as she could manage. In truth, she had never forgotten the way Jon had looked at her when he turned around, his gaze full of admiration, adoration, and something a little darker than that. It still brought a flush to her skin when she permitted herself to recall it.

“Only a tunic?” Jon asked, his throat bobbing much the same as it had then in the charged silence that had stretched between them. She’d always wanted to ask if he had been tempted to look as she stripped out of her sodden shift and smallclothes as in retrospect she had suspected, but there was no use in asking now. Only she recalled the way he’d uncomfortably cleared his throat, how his burned hand had clenched and unclenched at his side, and the tenseness of his back and shoulders as he stared resolutely into the flames he’d stoked in the grate. 

“Well, you offered the breeches too, but they fit so poorly I said I would prefer to wrap myself in your cloak or the furs from your bed instead,” she told him. 

“And did you?” He had looked startled the first time she’d brought up such a prospect, and he appeared curious now. Either way, both times she found his expression rather adorable.

“I chose the furs. I knew then that you cared for me,” she said. It had been so nice to have someone concerned for her own sake, and she remembered sitting in the chair across from Jon in front of the fire, furs that smelled like him draped across her legs and wrapped around her shoulders, thinking of how no one truly had tended to her this way since her mother had brushed her hair and sewn her dresses in the same stone walls of this very keep. “I had a family again.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he said, grinning. She felt like she could quickly become accustomed to this version of Jon and his easy, sweet smiles. “I meant when you began to suspect I felt more than… mere sibling affection for you.”

That moment, oddly enough, had been the most clear and simple of them all for her. “You had the glass gardens repaired, and in addition to the rows of grains and vegetables planted, you placed a bush of winter roses. And when the first flower bloomed, you gifted it to me.”

He had kissed her on the forehead then, and his soft expression now made it seem like he wished to repeat the action, or as if he couldn’t decide where exactly he wanted to kiss her.

Before he could make a decision, though, three rapt knocks echoed from the door.

“Oi, good morning!” her sister’s voice easily cut through the thick wood.

Sansa wasn’t sure if she was ready to share Jon with the rest of the world again so soon, but she acknowledged there were perhaps more important things that may require her attention than spending the day abed with him. “Yes?”

“Are you forgetting someone?” She heard the cry of their daughter, invariably hungry and who knew what else after what had certainly been a night of debauchery with her aunt.

“One moment. We’re, um… currently indisposed,” Sansa said, shooting Jon a guilty look before she slid out from beneath the furs and bent to the floor to begin picking up her clothing. 

“Utterly irresponsible,” she heard Arya mutter before her footsteps clicked away down the stone hall.


	9. Arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is a bit sillier. Sex agrees with jonsa, though not with poor Arya!

Arya had been so carefree during her first days in Winterfell, before Sansa had seen fit to burden her with the weight of her sinful behaviour —  _ marriage _ — with their brother. Not only had she been home, surrounded by those she loved most, but her old squabbles with Sansa had seemed to melt away with the passage of time. Sansa had seen fit to name her scrappy little girl after her, after all, and though Arya protested that it was annoying and confusing, it had warmed her heart in a way no apology or thoughtful conversation ever could. Arya was so tired from the war — wars, really — that she’d let her guard down. She’d even been excited to meet Sansa’s secret husband, whoever he was.  _ Sansa deserves somebody nice,  _ she’d thought, worried about her sister’s taste in men, hoping that the reason he was kept secret was because of his low birth and not because he was anything like Prince Joffrey. She’d known she might have to teach whoever Sansa had married a lesson, to make sure he didn’t lay a hand on her or Arya’s niece. After all, they were her pack, and she had a duty to protect them. 

 

But of course, Sansa had chosen wisely. There was no better man in the North than Jon Snow. Arya had no doubt that Sansa had schemed her way into Jon’s bed. It was all too convenient that Jon remembered nothing of their supposed courtship. Bran denied all of her suspicions, much to her annoyance, and out of principle Arya was forced to distance herself from her former brother for the betrayal. 

 

What hurt the most was that neither of them seemed to notice that Arya was giving them the cold shoulder. They hardly had time to, given that they were always slinking off to the Lord’s chambers now. Bran kept reminding her that Arya would have a little brother soon, and though the idea of growing their pack secretly excited her, the cost of a nephew was almost too much to bear. Almost. But not quite. 

 

By the fifth day, Arya had decided to forgive Sansa. The Gods wouldn’t, and there seemed to be little point in dramatics if nobody was around to even witness them. 

 

Besides, Arya had hatched a plan of her own, a much more devious one than Sansa bedding their brother. Arya would make their daughter prefer her aunt above her parents. 

 

It was surprisingly easy to accomplish. Nobody seemed to question when Arya stole little Arya away from the nursery. Old Nan was truly an incompetent childminder, and she often told stories to an empty cradle while knitting. And of course her own parents were so busy with their own drama that they didn’t check on her for hours at a time. Arya would sling the baby to her chest with a fabric contraption she’d seen the mothers in Wintertown use, and go about the castle as usual, tending to the baby’s occasional squabbles, and encouraging her in her general mischief. They would take the pups out to the Godswood to play — though that had been ruined when she’d overheard some vigorous splashing and had almost exposed baby Arya to her parents’ attempts to make her a little brother. Though the pups weren’t direwolves, but only regular, bastard wolves, they were still fierce, but little Arya didn’t seem to notice. She would grab hold of their fur in excitement, and once or twice had even tried biting them. It had become clear that the wolves needed protecting from the baby, who had established herself as the alpha. Arya couldn’t be prouder. 

 

A fortnight after returning home to Winterfell, Arya ventured into the glass gardens to get a carrot for little Arya to chew on, and she overheard Sansa giggling. 

 

“You look so pretty!” Sansa exclaimed. 

 

“No!” 

 

“You do!”

 

Arya mostly ignored Jon and Sansa when she came across them, lest she or little Arya be scarred for life, but she was curious what Jon could be doing so prettily. She pushed past an overgrown plant to see what had stirred her sister. It appeared as though Sansa had made Jon a flower crown out of blue roses, and tucked a few into his beard. In her arms, little Arya squealed in excitement when she saw her father.

 

“Arya!” Sansa said, her eyes lighting up when she saw the pair of them, “or Aryas? What should we call the two of them when they’re together?”

 

“Arya I and Arya II?” Jon suggested. He walked towards the two of them and grabbed his daughter from the makeshift sling that held her to her aunt’s chest.

 

“We weren’t the first Aryas, though,” Arya reminded him, already missing the ball of love and chaos that she spent her days with. 

 

“That’s true. But for simplicity’s sake.”

 

“You can call her Arya Targaryen,” Arya suggested, still annoyed that Jon wasn’t her brother. Both Sansa and Jon cringed at that. They were still loathe to tell their bannermen that they’d married, though almost everyone had guessed it by now, and they had never really discussed the implications of Jon’s heritage with her. It was almost as if the two of them preferred pretending to be brother and sister than married with a child. The entire arrangement confused her. 

 

“Arya Snow,” Sansa corrected, nuzzling her nose into the baby’s forehead, and looking up at Jon with a knowing grin. 

 

“You’re not going to let me calling her a bastard go, are you?”

 

“Never,” Sansa said. 

 

“Does she have a secret Targaryen name too?” Arya asked. Jon glanced up at Sansa too, wanting to know the answer. Arya’s heart went out to him, for having missed so much of his child’s life.

 

Sansa laughed wickedly. “Daenerys.” The playful glint in her eye was unrecognizable, but neither Jon nor Arya seemed to understand what was so funny and Sansa was in the regrettable position of laughing at her own joke. Sansa was unphased as her siblings stared at her, giggling away. When had Sansa become this woman? She was so confident and…  _ fun _ ? Arya remembered her as a prissy bore. 

 

“After the Dragon Queen?” 

 

Sansa nodded. “I used to worry about her a lot. I thought maybe Jon was in love with her.”

 

“Did you?” Jon asked, his brow creased in confusion. Arya supposed he wouldn’t remember if he had been, but for his sake she hoped it wasn’t the case. Jon having two incestuous lovers in such a short period of time would have been pretty disgusting. 

 

“I was jealous… but so were you, of… Littlefinger. Which was truly much more absurd. Daenerys Targaryen was beautiful. And she had  _ dragons _ and she was  _ all over _ Jon, it drove me absolutely  _ mad _ ,” Sansa paused, “not as mad as her, of course.”

 

Arya couldn’t be sure, but it seemed as if Jon’s grasp on his daughter had tightened when Sansa had said  _ Littlefinger _ . She wondered if that had jogged a memory in him, but said nothing.

 

“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Sansa said, straightening Jon’s flower crown. “They’re both dead, and we’re here, with our baby and our family, together…” Sansa leaned over and kissed Jon on the forehead. 

 

That was enough of the two of them for Arya for the day, and she itched to leave before her stomach turned. “I have stuff to do,” Arya said, as though she was very important, and still Jon’s favourite sister, “can you handle basic childcare for an hour or two?”

 

“Of course!” Jon said, slight annoyance creeping into his voice. “I’m her father!” 

 

Arya rolled her eyes. He was so defensive. 

 

“Don’t worry!” Sansa said, “you’ve been such a help, Arya, thank you!”

 

Arya wasted a few hours with Podrick Payne in the training yard. He was always eager to learn, and even when he didn’t ask her to spend time together, she would always find him gazing at her eagerly. There was something else in his eyes too. He reminded her of a lost puppy, desperate for home. He was kind to her, and a doting friend. 

 

Gendry didn’t like Podrick. 

 

“What did he do to you?” Arya demanded one night after dinner, clutching her niece to her chest. She had tried to sit with her two friends, but Gendry had ruined it, like he ruined so many things. She could barely remember why she even liked having him around.

 

“You know,” Gendry said, his voice gruff and full of derision.

 

“I  _ don’t _ .”

 

“He wants to marry you. He wants to bring you to his castle and marry you.”

 

“You’re not my father! You know that, right?”

 

“Oh, I know I’m not.”

 

“Yes, maybe you took care of me when I was a little girl, but I took care of you too! You would have died without me. You were absolutely useless with a sword. You were just…  _ big _ !”

 

“I bet Podrick would’ve been much better suited as a companion for a young lady.”

 

“Maybe he would’ve!” Arya sighed. On her chest, little Arya was getting worked up from the yelling. Gendry had gotten awfully close to her during their argument. His face was only inches from hers, even though he was so much taller than her. The big oaf looming over the two of them must’ve scared her niece, and she leaned over and bit Gendry’s chest through his thin shirt.

 

“Ow!” Gendry said, moving away from her. Little Arya’s bite was fearsome though, and it wasn’t easy to get the baby off of him.

 

_ He deserved that _ , Arya thought vindictively. But then her heart softened, and she wondered if there was another reason Gendry was getting so worked up over it. 

 

“He doesn’t have a castle, if that’s what you’re worried about. Probably some sad plot of land near Casterly Rock, unless Brienne has awarded him something or other. You don’t need to be so jealous, he’s nearly as penniless as you are. Is this why you brought me here? To talk about  _ Podrick Payne _ of all people? And my marriage prospects.”

 

“No. I have a gift for you,” Gendry said.

 

“Really?” Arya asked, unable to contain her smile. Her niece calmed as she did, no longer posing a threat to the stupid bull. 

 

Gendry reached into the cupboard and pulled out a helm. Arya gasped when she saw how it resembled a wolf’s head. Not like the Hound’s had been, but like a direwolf, as fierce as Nymeria. She loved it. 

 

“It’s so small,” she said as she took it in her hands.

 

“You don’t have a regular sized head,” Gendry said, “I’ve never made a helm so small. Your brother, Jon Snow, he’s really small, but he has a lot of hair, so…”

 

“Thank you,” Arya said, as she put it on her head. “I don’t think I’ll get much use out of it. I’m basically just a nanny now… and besides, armour slows water dancers down. But it’s beautiful.”

 

“We match now,” Gendry offered with a simple shrug. All of the vitriol he’d shown towards Podrick had vanished from his face, and he was her dear friend once more. 

 

“We just need one for little Arya now.”

 

“Do you want to have children?” Gendry asked, out of nowhere. 

 

Arya raised an eyebrow. “What?”

 

“You’re really good with her, s’all.”

 

“One day, yes. And no, before you get all angry again, not with Podrick Payne. He’s not the fancy lord you think he is, not that that would truly matter. No, I’m a Stark, a shewolf of Winterfell, and I will do what Sansa did… transform into a wolf and mate with my own kind.”

 

Gendry paused. He was not used to the Mormont lore, she knew, being a southerner from King’s Landing, so he didn’t know about how it was said the Mormonts were all fathered by bears. And she hoped he didn’t realize that she was just trying to forestall any conversation about marriage or children with him, because it put her on edge. “You don’t mean you’re going to secretly mate with your brother, right?” 

 

“No!”

 

That night, Arya and the pups sat in Sansa’s solar for a sewing lesson. It was stupid, really, but Arya had asked for it when she was still desperate to come up with ways to keep Jon and Sansa apart. She’d given up on that all now, but she was almost finished making the little onesie for little Arya. Her stitches may have been crooked, but the little outfit with its wolf ears and tail was too cute to give up on. They finished it that night, working diligently together as sisters, and dressed little Arya in it and sat her next to Wolfie.

 

“I see no difference,” Arya said, looking at the baby and the wolf pup.

 

“No. Me either,” Sansa said.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I got a kitten... guess what I named it (this fic makes it terribly obvious)


	10. Sansa

Sansa flit upstairs with the pail of steaming water in one hand and a handful of her skirts bunched in the other, holding the material out of her way as she made her way back to her chambers. She had just snatched it off the stove in the kitchens, and even in her haste, she made certain to keep her steps smooth and steady to prevent the water from splashing over the sides. She would have hated to mar her afternoon plans with an unplanned visit to the maester to tend to any accidental burns.

 

The boiling water, though, would cool enough to the tepid temperature she desired by the time she needed to use it. Sansa didn’t mind waiting a bit. She had plenty in mind to keep her and Jon occupied in the time being.

 

She had agreed to trim Jon’s vastly overgrown hair and beard today, and she was happy to have been provided with a legitimate reason to invite him into her chambers during the day. Although she knew such a grooming was long overdue, she didn’t see why she couldn’t enjoy him looking wild and untamed one last time before she made him presentable to appear in court before their subjects like a king.  

 

Setting the water off to the side, she dragged over the chair from her desk to place it in front of the looking glass and laid her items out on the flat surface of her bureau: soap, shears, razor, and a bit of scented oil to draw through his curls. Nothing too feminine, even though she had rather enjoyed the way he had smelled after he’d allowed her to crown him with the blue winter roses and thread them through his beard, and perhaps if her hand slipped, she could find a reason to slide some over his skin too…

 

Jon appeared in the doorway moments later, his unfortunately clothed form snapping her out of her daydreams.

 

“Our daughter is asleep,” he announced. He had taken to referring to little Arya like that to differentiate between her and their sister Arya, he claimed, but she suspected it secretly thrilled him by the way the corners of his mouth always turned up in a hint of a grin whenever he used the phrase.

 

“Is Arya with her?” Sansa asked. Out of her daughter’s most constant companions, she supposed her sister was the most competent. At least she was not prone to slipping into visions of the past, present, or future whenever boredom struck like Bran or drifting off to sleep at inopportune times like Old Nan.

 

He nodded. “She said she would read her ‘The Dance of Dragons’ if she woke.” He grinned, fully this time. “So I don’t think anyone will be searching us out for quite a while.”

 

Arya’s insinuation of them shirking their parenting responsibilities still stung, and even though Sansa had been enjoying the few most joyous weeks of her life, she had to admit she could see her sister’s point, so she couldn’t bring herself to criticize her choice of tale. Besides, it wasn’t as if Arya would remember the stories of dragons consuming people alive anyhow. Even if she did, it could serve as a cautionary tale, and Sansa would have plenty of time to fill her head with the pleasant fairytales of Duncan and Jenny or Florian and Jonquil.  

 

Jon sat down in the chair she’d placed in the center of the room without her having to prompt him. She’d noticed he seemed to enjoy now when she made a fuss over him, something he had never permitted before, always waving away her attentions and saying there were more important things to tend to than him.

 

She wasted no time in arranging herself across his lap, straddling both him and the chair. Her fingers began to slip the ties that held the neck of his shirt together through the eyelets. “Perhaps you ought to take this off to avoid it being dirtied.”

 

“I thought you intended to clean me?” he asked, his voice dropping to the low, husky tone that made her momentarily forget all about the more honorable intentions with which she had lured him into her chambers.  

 

“I do. I just thought you might be a bit… overdressed.”

 

Jon didn’t protest as she swept his shirt up and off. His scars greeted her, darkened and smoothed by the passage of time. Some new had joined those his so-called brothers had left him with, but even as she hated the suffering, the sacrifice, the betrayal they represented, she couldn’t find them ugly. They proved how he had lived, and they showed how he had survived, much like her own. 

 

She dipped a cloth into the water. It was hot, but no more so than the water of the pools in the godswood. As she washed his skin, she thought about the time her and Jon had spent there last week. Jon had been teasing her about the time she had fallen in as they walked past, telling her to take care as they skirted their way around and not to worry. To show him just how unconcerned she was, she had stripped out of her clothes and slipped in, and then they had made love, shrouded from view by the rising steam.

 

She felt him tense as her hand neared the waistband of his breeches, absentmindedly scrubbing over and over the same stretches of his ridged abdomen. The mood shifted, any sense of purpose having disappeared and been replaced by an air of inevitability.  

 

Jon eased up the hem of her skirt and groaned when his hands met her skin above where her stockings ended. “Did you wear these for me?”

 

“Maybe for you. Or maybe for myself,” she said, rolling her hips against him.  

 

He ran his thumbs over the blue roses embroidered at the top before he dipped them beneath the material, sliding his hands higher until they reached the soft curls between her legs. He glanced up at her in surprise at the realization of her missing garments. “Did you forget something as you dressed this morning?”

 

She shrugged. In truth, she had forgone her shift, corset, and smallclothes in anticipation of this afternoon. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I’ve tired of them being torn or going missing, and I’ve been too occupied with other important business to sew more.”

 

Jon at least had the decency to redden at that in an unspoken admission of guilt before he nuzzled his cheek against hers and replied in a voice that was slightly more than a growl, “Is that so?”    

 

She felt herself already slick between her legs, a feeling that had become not uncommon over the past fortnight. It seemed as though Jon could make her wanton with a simple word or wayward look.

 

Sansa dropped the cloth, all pretenses forgotten, and loosened the ties of her dress, sliding her arms from the sleeves so the neckline sagged and the fabric bunched around her hips. It would have been easy enough to stand and let it fall away to the floor, but Jon’s hands tightened on her waist and instead she continued the slow roll of her hips against him, her fingers threading through his hair.

 

Jon’s eyes roamed over her body in appreciation. They had coupled more times than she could recall by now, but it still thrilled her that she could make him react so.

 

She kissed her way up from his collarbone, along his neck, until Jon caught her lips with his and deepened the kiss. She rubbed herself against his stiff cock through his breeches and a frustrated whine escaped her, the friction offered by the coarse fabric of his breeches still not satisfying enough.

 

It seemed Jon couldn’t decide which part of her he wished to touch most, his hands sliding from cupping her breasts, down to her ass, back up to span across her stomach. She had yet to tell Jon of Bran’s premonition, so she flushed with the knowledge of what would soon—what might _already_ —be concealed there beneath his hand that stroked over the soft skin of her belly. At last his hands settled on her hips, holding her skirt out of the way and following her movements as she tortured them both with the way she ground her cunt against him.

 

Hurrying to undo the laces of his breeches and making a note in her mind to sew Jon new ones with buttons that wouldn’t impeded her future progress quite so much, she slipped his cock free and sank down on him.

 

A moan slipped from her throat as Jon groaned in unison. Just because the feeling of completeness she experienced whenever they coupled had become more familiar over the past few weeks, that did not mean it had lessened in intensity. She stilled for a moment, enjoying the sense of fullness, and then she began to move, slowly, carefully lifting herself up and sliding back down on his length, each of her movements accompanied by Jon’s huffs and pants.   

 

Jon thrust upward into her and she gasped, the chair creaking under their weight. She almost grinned into his hair, amused by the idea that it couldn’t possibly have been crafted with this purpose in mind.

 

She quickened her pace in response. The fabric of her stockings began to slip and bunch, and her dress twisted as Jon let go of it to fit a hand between her legs, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care either about the way her knees scraped against the grainy wood of the chair, nor how Jon’s rough beard had scratched her chest red, or how her haggard breaths echoed obscenely off the stone walls. Nothing but the heat slinking through her body seemed to matter as the feelings that started as intense began to overwhelm her.

 

She knew Jon neared his peak as well, with the way he grunted and strained against her. “It’s all right,” she said, allowing him the permission he sometimes sought. He pushed into her faster, harder, and she buried her face in the thick of his hair as she felt herself flutter around him, pleasure washing over her, and prompting Jon to spill himself.  

 

She collapsed forward, her arms twined around his neck, breathing hard. “I told you it would be better this way,” she said, smirking as she glanced over the sweat that now glistened on his skin. She would have to scrub over him again, but that made no matter.

 

“Aye, you were right. Perhaps we ought to bathe now?” He grinned, full of hope.

 

Sansa smiled and rolled her eyes at his proposition, pushing away from him and making to stand. He responded to the separation with a noise of discontent.

 

“Robb always did say you hated getting your hair cut,” she teased. She pulled her shift on, chilly now that she had distanced herself from the heat of Jon’s body, and took a fresh cloth to his skin and wet his hair and beard.

 

“Well, I would have liked it a whole lot better if it had been you instead,” he said, clearly appreciating the way his eyes lined up directly across from the details of the blue winter roses embroidered on her chest while she stood and worked around him. He sighed in contentment as her nails scratched over his scalp. “I wish I’d had someone like you at the Wall. It would have made things a whole lot more pleasant.”

 

Sansa glanced down at him in a mix of confusion and dismay. “I thought you had—er—your wildling lover?”  

 

“No, I mean—not someone like that,” he added hastily. “There was already Mole’s Town for that anyhow.”

 

Sansa wrinkled her nose. She knew Jon wasn’t the type to frequent those kinds of establishments, but still, she was certain that being stuck in never-ending winter at the world’s end could cause even the most level-headed to do things they never imagined.

 

“Sorry, that’s even worse.” Jon cringed. “I meant… someone with a gentle touch. Someone who cared.”

 

He reached up to squeeze her free hand that rested on his shoulder. “I know,” she said, trying to avoid allowing her voice to soften any further. If she did, then there was little chance of her completing this task or them leaving her chambers before daybreak the following morning.

 

She grabbed her brush from her bureau and drew it through Jon’s hair—or attempted, at least.

 

Jon yelped as the brush entangled itself in the thick snarls of his curls.

 

“Sorry, so sorry!” she said, working quickly to disentangle the bristles from his hair and try again.

 

This time she applied more force to no avail, and Jon hissed in pain. “That fucking hurts!”

 

Sansa couldn’t help but laugh as he swatted away her third attempt with the brush. “Really? None of this,” she gestured towards the scars on his chest left by knives and swords and arrows and who knew what else, “caused you a bit of pain, but this is too much?” She waved the brush in front of him. “This is the weapon that has cowed the great King in the North?”

 

“It hurts,” he repeated, sulking.

 

“If only you knew what I went through to bring your daughter into this world,” she said, placing the brush back in front of her mirror. It seemed it would be of little help anyway.

 

Jon grumbled, but that seemed to put the situation in enough perspective to allow her to try again, using just her fingers this time to separate the strands.

 

She was slightly more successful with this method, but time, the elements, and a distinct lack of access to soap and clean water beyond the Wall had wreaked their havoc. “Hold still,” she warned, and using the shears, she began to painstakingly cut strand by strand to loosen the enmeshed tangles.

 

Removing a large section that seemed to be at the center of one of the nastiest knots, she placed it in her hand, only to realize it was not hair at all.

 

“What _is_ this?” she asked, pressing it into his palm.  

 

“Looks like a burr,” he said, turning it over.

 

“A _burr?”_ she said, her voice threatening to key into a higher pitch. “Burrs don’t appear in winter, Jon!”

 

“Well, maybe they do beyond the Wall, I don’t know,” he said in way of a poor explanation.

 

“Clearly you know nothing,” she said, taking a cup of water and a bit of the soap and working it in to lather his hair, wary of what else she may find.

 

At last she seemed to have worked the final bits free, but when she stood back, she noticed the appearance of a new problem, as she areas where the knots had formerly existed were now rather thin and barren.

 

“There’s no hope for it, is there?” he said.

 

“I’m afraid not,” she said. “Shall I just even it out?”

 

He nodded in agreement, and she set to work, wetting down his hair so it laid flat, and cutting it to eliminate any of the strange gaps she had inadvertently created.

 

She moved around to his beard next, not even bothering with the brush before she dampened it and settled on combing it out with her fingers. She untangled as much as she could before she needed the shears again, and again she began the slow, meticulous process of freeing hair by hair.

 

“You know—” Jon moved just the slightest inch, but it was still enough. The shears closed at a far sharper angle than she had intended, and a long chunk of his beard fluttered to the floor.

 

“Jon!” She picked up the segment, which of course had been a section she had just unraveled, and held it up, perhaps hoping for some kind of magical reattachment to occur.  

 

“Sorry,” he said when no such miracle happened. “Maybe it’s for the best? Perhaps I ought to be rid of the whole thing.”

 

“Are you certain?”

 

“It’ll be better to grow it back in full,” he said. “Go on.”

 

She swapped out her shears for some soap and a razor, and with another firm directive to _hold still,_ she began to draw the razor over his skin in smooth strokes, pausing every once in a while to rinse it off in what was left of the bucket of water.

 

After drying him with a towel, Sansa stood back to admire her handiwork. Jon smiled back at her, his same sweet, kind smile that had made her heart flutter and her knees weaken even since before he had returned to Winterfell but especially since, his view of himself in the looking glass blocked by her body.

 

She desperately hoped he misread the horrorstruck look that surely graced her face as admiration, or perhaps awe. _What have I done?_


	11. Jon

In the days that followed, the coziness of the routine Jon and Sansa had fallen into fell apart. Jon had gotten used to the warmth Sansa had shown him, and he’d allowed himself to believe it could go on forever. But he seemed to have committed some egregious error, for overnight Sansa grew distant, and Jon was forced to sleep alone in a cold bed. Sansa had her excuses, of course, and she was never rude to him. Often she fell asleep in the nursery tending to little Arya, or simply stuck to her own chambers. Jon had never dared visit her unprompted, and Sansa never invited him to share her bed. 

 

She simply didn’t look at him the same way anymore, and it did not take much guesswork for him to see why. He had not grown suddenly repulsive, despite the bur from the previous spring she’d found in his hair. He had made sure to bathe nearly every night, and Sansa had sheared him to her liking himself. He had been so eager to please her that he had let her cut his beloved hair and beard and mood his appearance to her exact specifications. No, it had nothing to do with his looks. He just wasn’t the same man he was when he’d set off, and Sansa had realized no matter what she did, or which sex act she performed, the old Jon would not be coming back. She could not find it in her heart to love the remnant of the man she’d married.

 

Jon had tried many things to stir her interest again. He had told her that he could feel her beard coming in again, and asked her if she’d like to shave him again. But she had told him that he better leave it for another week or so before touching it. He had tried to come to her in the nursery, but his daughter had burst into tears at the sight of him, and Arya the elder had to carry her off to console her. That had really ruined the mood, and Old Nan was there besides. 

 

Without Sansa to occupy his daytime hours, Jon had taken up the task of supervising Arya the elder and her many suitors. He was well used to spending all day with his sister, the ample food supply, warmth and other than the young men who hovered around her and his infant daughter she often had in her arms, it was almost as if they were still beyond the wall. 

 

“No, Jon,” Arya said with a sigh when he’d told her as much, “how could you say that? It’s nothing like when we were stranded beyond the wall. We’re home!”

 

“I suppouse,” Jon said. “Nobody seems to care that I’m here, anymore. They’ve grown tired of me.”

 

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about! Your subjects supplicate you all day! You’re the one who avoids them!”

 

Technically, that was true. They were currently in his solar pretending to be too busy to tend to Rickard Forrester, an annoyingly handsome and gallant man who had inherited the Dreadfort. Sansa had already told him that he was not allowed to even suggest that he had warmed out his welcome, and the man seemed eager to become Jon’s closest friend, and if Sansa was to believed, even marry into their family.

 

_ “How can you be so hateful to the man who saved Old Nan’s life? He’d be a good match for Arya, I think, when she’s ready to marry — they say he’s the most handsome lord in the North.” _

 

_ “What about Podrick? Or the blacksmith?” _

 

_ “Jon, please be serious! It’s as though you don’t even care for Arya. Sure, Arya might like having admirers, and I’m happy for her — you know I am, we’ve buried the hatchet — but compared to Rickard they’re both rather common and… well, stupid. And have mercy on those poor boys— Arya would eat them alive! Don’t you want better for your sister than a youthful flirtation? If what they say about Gendry is true — that he’s Robert Baratheon’s bastard, and he certainly looks it — you know his looks will fade.” _

 

_ “You think Rickard Forrester is the smartest man in the North?” _

 

_ “Well, the smartest man at our court.” _

 

_ “What about me?” _

 

_ “Jon, you can’t be serious. You’re already married to me, you can’t marry Arya. Besides, the two of you look so similar. Rickard’s soft blonde hair would look so nice next to Arya’s dark hair.” _

 

Jon sighed once more, pushing the loop of Sansa extolling Rickard Forrester’s virtues from his mind. “Sansa has been avoiding me.”

 

“No she hasn’t, she’s come to every meal, she had a pitcher of water sent to us twenty minutes ago. With a note about how you need to remember to keep hydrated. It had a little heart on it.” Arya scrunched up her nose in disgust.

 

“You don’t understand.”

 

“You’re right, I don’t.”

 

“She hasn’t come to bed with me in five days.”

 

“Jon, why would you tell me that?” Arya asked, “and in front of the baby?!” Arya covered little Arya’s ears protectively, as though his infant daughter would be scarred by hearing about her parents sex life. 

 

“You’re the only one I trust with this.”

 

“Not Sam? Or Sansa? Or Rickard Forrester?”

 

Jon frowned at the mention of that little dandy’s name. “I don’t trust him.”

 

Arya rolled her eyes. “He’s okay.”

 

“I don’t like him.”

 

“He might be a little bland, but he never brings up his sex life with me.”

 

“That’s because he doesn’t have one,” Jon said, before realizing that he too no longer had a sex life. He sighed, for the thousandth time. “She’s gone off me.”

 

“Oh Jon… it’s going to be okay. You’ve just been at her too much. She’s not like us. She doesn’t like getting sweaty, and she can’t take a beating. She’s probably just…” Arya shuddered, “sore. You’ve injured her, because people aren’t meant to do it as much as you were.”

 

This was an explanation Jon could accept, but he was flooded with immediate guilt. He had been such an idiot! Of course this made sense. He had been too rough with her, forgetting in lust that she was a highborn lady used to being treated delicately. Half a dozen different positions flashed to mind, things only a bastard could have come up with. Ygritte had been a sturdier build than Sansa, and he had never been quite so animalistic with her. 

 

He intended to apologize to her that night at dinner, but to his dismay Sansa had been seated across the room with Arya, Lord Manderly and his grandsons. Jon himself was sitting between Bran and Lord Forrester, who he had spent the majority of the day trying to avoid. Bran was as stoic as ever, but Lord Forrester was charming and conversational, eager to befriend Jon. That was not like to happen so long as Sansa kept singing his praises and Rickard continued to wear that little green feathered cap of his. 

 

“My King, I have something important to ask you,” Rickard said as Jon shoveled down rabbit stew. 

 

The twit gave him no choice, so Jon grumbled his ascent.

 

“As you know, I’ve been at Princess Sansa’s court since you left. I’ve defended her honour against those who say Lord Petyr fathered her bastard—”

 

“People say  _ what?” _ Jon asked, unable to contain a growl. He barely knew anything about Petyr Baelish, except that Sansa had him executed and that he’d wanted to marry her.

 

“I’ve done my best to put a stop to it, Your Grace. But even if it is true, it does not change how I feel about the princess. I’m sure you know, we are close confidants and work well together. She was the one who chose this feather for my cap! I think I can make her very happy, and I would raise her bastard as my own—”

 

Jon knew this was going to happen, no matter how much Sansa said the man was like one of the girls. And Lord Manderly over there, eyeing Sansa up and parading his grandsons and the wealth of White Harbor in front of her… it had to stop.“Arya is not a bastard, and she does not need you as a stepfather,” Jon snapped. Jon did not falter when Rickard’s mouth opened in surprise. Jon stood up and cleared his throat. It took a few moments for the Great Hall to quiet down. “It is time you all knew the truth. I will  _ not _ be marrying any of your daughters, and Sansa will  _ not  _ be marrying any of your sons. If you came here to court  _ anyone _ you should go home, for Sansa is spoken for, and so am I. Arya is  _ my  _ daughter, and Sansa is  _ my  _ wife.”

 

There were a few gasps, but Jon’s smallfolk were not surprised at all. Jon supposed that was his fault for being so obvious over the past weeks.

 

“Sansa kept this from you because there wasn’t much proof that I was a Targaryen when I’d left, but you all believe it now.”

 

“Marrying your sister is all the proof we need that you’re a Targaryen,” Rickard mumbled under his breath.

 

“What was that, My Lord?” Jon asked.

 

“Nothing, Your Grace.”

 

“I will leave you all to enjoy the rest of your dinner,” Jon said, realizing the room was feeling a bit awkward due to his outbreak. “I have kingly matters to attend to in my solar.”

 

Ghost followed Jon to his study, and sat by his side loyally. Even if Jon had lost most of his memories and become unrecognizable to the people he loved most, his pup was always there for him. “Do you think she’ll come?” Jon asked the direwolf. Ghost remained as silent as ever. Jon ran a hand through Ghost’s fur. Jon waited for awhile, but when she didn’t come he turned to his ledgers, where he looked for errors in the steward’s multiplication. When he was too tired and bleary eyed even for sums, he went to bed, sending Ghost off to keep watch over the wolf pups in the kneels. 

  
Jon was abed and nearly asleep when he finally heard his door open. Sansa’s pretty face was illuminated by the candle she held. “You  _ idiot _ ,” she said, rolling her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this has taken so long! Hope you all like it, though it's very silly. Jon doesn't know what's up.


	12. Sansa

At last, Sansa found herself able to escape from the Great Hall. Lord Manderly walked out ahead of her with the aid of two of his grandsons, his booming laugh echoing across the quiet courtyard, and the rest of the knights and men-at-arms who had stayed long past dinner and late into the night stumbled out as well, their voices carrying as they disjointedly sang on the bawdy songs they’d just finished dancing to in the hall. 

 

It would be a blessing to unpin her hair, unlace her dress, and slide beneath her warm furs, where she could sleep in peace and quiet, completely unaware of the chaos she had spent all evening attempting to rectify. But first she _needed—_

 

“Lady Sansa!”

 

She turned to see Rickard Forrester approaching her. It appeared that dream of peaceful rest and her other plans would have to wait a little while longer.   

 

He still looked like a lord even when most of the others were beyond far into their cups, drunk on the free-flowing ale and arbor gold she’d ordered pulled out of the stores in an effort to placate her uneasy and overly inquisitive guests after Jon’s outburst. The newly instated Lord of the Dreadfort wore his green cloak patterned with embroidered trees she’d designed herself while she had been heavy with child and mostly confined to her chambers, and his matching leather pants fit him perfectly. Not even his pointed hat nor its feather had been knocked askew in the revelry. 

           

“Lord Rickard.” She offered him a smile far more genuine than the strained ones she had demurred intrusive questions and scorned suitors with all night.

 

“I simply thought I ought to offer my thanks and leave you with my farewells if I am to be packing my things and riding off for my own lands in the morning.” She saw his throat bob with uncharacteristic nervousness, and he glanced around the courtyard as he spoke. “King Jon made it quite clear how he feels about these visitors overstaying their welcome in his home.”  

           

She recalled the way Jon’s sword hand had clenched and unclenched as he rose and spoke, and how he had stormed from the hall with an air of fury. She suspected more than a few men had thanked the gods in that moment that the remaining dragons had perished in the fight beyond the Wall.

           

“Oh, no! That isn’t what he meant at all,” she babbled, realizing after the words spilled from her mouth that forcing Rickard and the others to go home was, in fact, precisely what Jon had intended. “I just… I think… Jon merely wished to inform anyone who hoped to obtain a royal title through marriage to either of us that they would have no opportunity to do so. And while yes, there is no point in so many remaining in Winterfell with courtship in mind, I certainly wouldn’t mind if you stayed.”

           

Rickard raised his eyebrows in interest. “Oh?”

           

“My sister Arya is of an age to begin entertaining suitors, and I know she would certainly be interested in a kind soul and an accomplished swordsman such as yourself,” Sansa said in a rush, hoping the flattery would appease him for now and that he would leave her be to attend to more important tasks.

 

Rickard straightened, the feather atop his hat seeming to quiver with pride as he smiled. “Well, if you are willing to bestow myself with such an honor, I would be pleased to accept.”

           

“Excellent,” Sansa said, becoming increasingly anxious and wishing to freed from this conversation more with every minute that passed. “I shall see you in the morning then, Lord Rickard?”

           

He swept into a bow. “I look forward to it, my lady. And perhaps one day I will be able to call you more than that?”

           

She gave a hurried nod, bid him goodnight, and went on her way. 

 

 

 

Sansa snatched a candle out of one of the stone holders as she made her way to Jon’s chambers, not caring if the clicking of her boots on the flagstones woke half the castle, or at least those who had not chosen to partake in the impromptu festivities in the hall anyway. She was thankful she passed no one as she didn’t particularly relish the prospect of explaining why she was in such a rush, nor why a flush had crept up her chest or her corset had already tightened around her bosom.

 

Certainly she missed the feel of the pleasurable ache and the sweetly sore muscles that resulted from their lovemaking over the past five days they had gone without, but even more Sansa had missed Jon himself.

 

She missed the comfort of his embrace, the way he smiled whenever he saw her, how his eyes would crinkle with the laughter they shared or darken with his desire for her. She had missed telling him the stories of how they had fallen in love or about how much their daughter had grown in the moons since she had been born. Most of all, she enjoyed when they would speak of the future, of their shared hopes and dreams, of rebuilding Winterfell and the North, of what they wanted their home to become, and even of the children they hoped to fill it with.

 

She felt another surge of guilt that had become all too common over the past few days as she hurried along, the unpleasant sensation sitting in her stomach like lead. She recalled the startled expression on baby Arya’s face when she first saw Jon after his face had been shaven and his hair had been cut. Sansa imagined it had not been dissimilar to her own, but their daughter had actually started to cry and had rebuked every one of Jon’s efforts to comfort her.

 

She had chalked it up to simple shock, telling Jon as much when he looked bewildered and saddened by his daughter’s reaction, but that had only made Sansa feel worse about her own aversion to him. She hadn’t quite known how to handle the fact that the moment he had turned towards her, he had suddenly looked so incredibly young, so completely transformed, so disturbingly like her _brother_.

 

It was wrong, she knew. He hadn’t been able to help the years he’d seemed to lose along with his curls and beard. But as many times as she told herself he was still the same Jon, the Jon who was very much her husband and the father of her child and not her brother and never had been no matter what lies her father had told to protect him and them all, she had struggled to overcome her perception of him as such.

 

And with that had come not only the difficulties of maintaining a sense of normalcy in their relationship, but also the shame of remembering the way she’d treated the boy she’d called half-brother… or bastard when she knew he wasn’t in earshot. She thought she had contended with that past long ago, that those feelings were long gone after she had been overjoyed to reunite with him once again, after she had experienced life as Alayne, after they had taken back Winterfell and long after her feelings for Jon had turned more than familial.

 

Yet once she saw him looking like the boy she recalled from her youth, with whom she’d played monsters and maidens, who’d swung wooden swords with Robb and proclaimed himself to be Aemon the Dragonknight in her defense until she learned why Jon did not share her last name of Stark and she began to distance herself from him, she been stricken by the memory of how she had treated him and felt as though they’d never left Winterfell.

 

Sansa knew she owed him an explanation and an apology and much more than that. But first there were other matters to which she need attend.

 

She found Jon’s chambers dark as she pushed open the unlocked door, holding the candle in front of her to light the way until she reached his sleeping form.

 

“You _idiot,”_ she hissed, and he blinked at her, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

 

Jon sat up, the furs sliding away and revealing he’d worn nothing but his smallclothes to bed, and she felt her body begin to react at the sight alone. It was ridiculous, she knew, that she felt this way after only five days, when she had survived a year and a half with him away, and longer than that before they had admitted their feelings for each other and married beneath the heart tree.

 

“Do you know what I’ve spent the evening doing?” she said, his gaze following her movements as she began to let down her hair. “And I hope you learned how to brew even that dreadfully awful drink they tried to pass off as ale at the Wall because we’ll be needing to replenish our stores lest I require more to settle another diplomatic mess.”

 

“Sansa, I’m sorry, but those men…” She saw his jaw quiver again just as it had when he’d been speaking to Lord Rickard in the Great Hall, and she was pleased to see it once more covered in the shadow of a beard. Soon enough he would look like her husband again. “I had to let them know that you are mine. Both of you are _mine.”_

 

Despite her frustration, her heart twisted at his show of passion and protectiveness. She already pitied whatever man asked for their daughter’s hand one day.

 

“I _am_ yours,” she said, shaking out her hair and moving on to the laces of her dress. “I think anyone who’s seen us together over the past moon could tell.”

 

“Evidently not Rickard Forrester,” Jon said, but instead of his tone icy or full of anger, his voice hitched.  

 

“Oh, Jon, no,” she said, shucking her dress so quickly she heard a couple of the stitches snap. He at least seemed the slightest bit cheered that she now stood before him in only her shift.  

 

“Sansa, if he’s what you want, I understand… you don’t deserve to be tied to someone broken like me.”

 

“I can assure you he isn’t,” she said, cupping his cheek. “I cannot deny that Rickard is handsome, yes—”

 

Jon slid his hand up to hold hers against the stubble on his cheek. “I’ve been thinking about shaving it clean again—”

 

“NO!” Sansa screeched. “No, I mean, it’s still winter, so you should keep it, grow it out again a bit for warmth, don’t you think?”

 

“All right,” he agreed readily, freeing her hand so she could remove her shift and smallclothes. “I know you’ve already sewn me a cloak and that’s plenty, but I could wear those kind of pants he has too, if you wished?”

 

She climbed into bed with him, the thought of Jon in tight leather pants one she would be holding onto for later consideration.

 

 “And—and his hat? The one with the feather? I must confess I’m not sure if it would suit me, but if you like it…”

 

She giggled. “Jon, you can wear whatever you’d like, and I would still be your wife.”  

 

He kissed her, and she was pleased to discover that no matter how much he resembled the quiet, withdrawn boy she had once known, he still very much kissed like a man. His hands sought each part of her body, skimming over her breasts, across her stomach, down her thigh, until he used one to part her legs.

 

She whined as she felt how easily his finger slipped inside her. It would have been embarrassing how much of a lustful creature she had become, but Jon seemed to desire her just as much. He groaned, and she felt him already hard when she reached down to palm him through his smallclothes.  

 

Sansa tore her lips from his and panted, “Do you remember when I said I wished to be taken like a wolf?”

 

The grin he gave her proved he very much did.


	13. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anybody still reading this? It’s been awhile. Words haven’t come that easily lately, but here’s an update for you all!

Jon still needed to talk everything out with Sansa. There was so much that had been left unsaid, and his memories still evaded him… that was something hard for either of them to patch up. And yet his wife was still here, tonight, desperate for him to make love to her. He could put off his inadequacies for another night, he’d been able to put them off this long.

 

“Like a wolf?” Jon repeated back to Sansa, to make sure he understood his wife. 

 

Sansa nodded, a small smile on her lips. She did not seem to want to wait, and began to undress. 

 

Jon stopped her before she could remove the silk stockings that reached mid-thigh. They could stay. Jon slipped her smallclothes off and then whispered a command into her ear, “get on your hands and knees. 

 

“You don’t want me to undress first?” Sansa asked.

 

“I think we’ve both waited quite long enough, don’t you, Lady Stark?” 

 

Sansa nodded and did as instructed.

 

Jon stood at the side of the bed and shed his smallclothes. “You want to be fucked as though you were an animal, my lady?” It wouldn’t be difficult for Jon. He didn’t know how to be anything but gentle with Sansa. He had become immediately protective of her and their daughter since he’d arrived back home at Winterfell, but there were dark desires in him too, and Sansa was a beautiful woman. If she wanted to be ravished, he would prove worthy to the task.

 

“Like this?” Sansa asked, pushing her knees open so Jon could see all of her.

 

“Aye.” He couldn’t help but reach out and touch her, to run the back of his fingernails against her wet cunt. “You’re eager,” he growled into her ear as he stood behind her. She just whimpered in return. Jon took his cock in hand and pushed inside her, gripping her hips to control the thrusts. 

 

Sansa had said she wanted to be fucked like an animal, but Jon was deliberate with her, savouring each languid stroke. Jon’s hand ran across the stocking’s she’d kept on, savouring the feeling of his burnt hand against soft silk. 

 

“Jon,” Sansa cried out, and he abandoned her stockings and gripped her hips with his hand, and pulled her close to him. 

 

It was easy to get caught up in making love to his wife. When he was inside of her, he forgot about his embarrassing outburst at dinner and the way she seemed to have ignored him. The desperate little noises that came out of Sansa had a way of concentrating his attention in the moment. If Sansa hadn’t wanted to be fucked like this quite so much, Jon would pull her face out of the pillows and have her sit on his cock. There was nothing quite so wonderful as watching the expression on her face while he was inside of her. But as it stood, he liked pleasing his wife, and he did as she asked like the dutiful husband he was. 

 

They carried on like that for some time, but soon it became almost impossible to thrust inside of her, as her legs had come too far together. Jon pulled out of her, took a leg in each hand and pulled them apart. He eyed her like that for a moment, took in the way she stuck her ass and cunt out to be fucked, the subtle arch of her back. He wanted to be inside of her so much it almost hurt, but another longing took hold of him. It had been too long since he’d tasted her. Jon rolled over onto his back and grabbed her legs, pulling her on top of him, so she was sitting directly on his mouth. She was already so wet and hungry for him that she seemed to take the position in stride. By now she was well used to his near constant desire to pleasure her with his mouth. 

 

Sansa sat up straight, and rested her hands on the headboard of their bed, supporting herself as she rode his face. “This is nice,” she murmured when he began, but only a minute passed before she had forgotten herself, and was moaning loud enough that  _ Rickard Forrester _ and all the rest could probably hear her in the Great Hall. 

 

At least, Jon hoped Rickard Forrester could hear.

 

In fact, he wouldn’t mind if all of his bannermen were forced to stand outside their bedroom and listen to the way Sansa came apart for him. His jealousy had made him understand the bedding ceremony he’d once considered so barbarian.  _ Perhaps the Northern Lord’s should be made to watch us, to keep them from getting any ideas about just who Sansa belongs to,  _ Jon thought, before thinking better of the whole thing. Best not to tell Sansa he had such thoughts, even if they only came to him when they were abed. 

 

Perched on his face, Jon could watch the bounce of her breasts and the twitch of her mouth as she came. Despite her orgasm, Sansa showed no sign of wanting Jon’s tongue to stop. He often would push her body far, seeing how she would react when he continued to stroke her clit after she’d already come. He kept his grip on her legs tight now, to let her know he hadn’t finished with her. He liked to tire her to the point of exhaustion, and often after their lovemaking she would need to lie down for a few hours before emerging from their chambers. He liked to get her so wet that she was slick and ready for him the next morning. This was why he’d so easily believed Arya when she’d suggested that Jon had simply exhausted his wife sexually. And though he felt bad about it, now that he had his hands on her, he didn’t seem to be able to stop. She hadn’t visited him in days, after all, and a man had needs.

 

Her legs were shaking before Jon moved behind her again, but she hadn’t cum yet. 

 

“Let’s make another baby,” Sansa said, seemingly out of nowhere.

 

Kneeling behind her with his cock in hand, Jon could not see her face. The thought of Sansa growing thick with his child made him groan behind her, unable to slip easily inside her, he gave himself a few strokes. He hadn’t been there when Sansa had been pregnant with Arya, but they could do it all again. It sunk in, perhaps for the first time, that this wasn’t all a dream, and Sansa wasn’t just going to leave him when she figured out how broken he was.

 

“Bend over,” Jon replied. She did, and Jon entered her again. This time every thrust seemed purposeful. It did not take more than a few seconds inside of her for him to spill his seed. He stayed there for a moment when he had, her cunt held tight around him. 

 

When it was all over, they settled easily into a loose embrace. Jon was exhausted, and the sweet smell of Sansa’s hair had nearly lulled him to sleep when Sansa broke what he’d thought was a comfortable silence.

 

“We really should talk,” she said, rolling over so she was looking at him. 

 

Jon could barely see her, the candles had long gone out and only the moonlight illuminated Sansa’s face. He brushed a stray strand of hair out of her eyes, and kept a hand resting on her cheek. “I’m sorry about my outburst,” he said.

 

Sansa shook her head beneath his hand, “no that’s not what I meant. That was… fine, really.”

 

“About having a baby, then?”

 

“There’s not much to talk about, Jon. Bran saw it.”

 

Jon had no complaints there. If he had any say in the matter, he would get half a dozen more children on her. “What’s wrong, then?”

 

“Nothing’s really wrong, but…” Sansa hesitated, “I think you need to grow your beard back in.”

 

Jon pulled his hand away from Sansa’s cheek and brought it to his own face. A hint of stubble had grown in over the past few days, but other than that he was free of half a year’s worth of beard. “I thought you liked it.”

 

“Oh… um…”

 

“You did it to me!”

 

“I’m sorry about that… I just wanted to take care of you. But underneath… you look like you did when we were children. It’s like the beard somehow protected your face from aging, and you still look just like you did the day we left Winterfell. You look… like my brother…”

 

Jon didn’t know what to say about that. 

 

“Don’t be mad!” Sansa said. “I love you still.”

 

“Is that why you wanted to be… from behind? You didn’t want to look at me?”

 

It took Sansa a moment too long to speak, and Jon rolled away from her and laid on his back. 

 

Sansa reached a hand out towards him, “you don’t look  _ bad _ , Jon. It’s just hard when I remember how it used to be. It would be like if I was still flat-chested and wore my hair in southern styles, you wouldn’t be able to --”

 

“You can wear your hair however you want. I don’t really remember how you used to wear it. I don’t remember any of that,” Jon said.

 

He hadn’t meant to offend her by it, but she went quiet. Jon didn’t know what to say, and Sansa pulled away from him, rolling over and laying flat on her back. The two of them laid like that for awhile, staring at the ceiling in silence. He assumed it was over, and they would deal with it in the morning, but then he began to hear a muffled sound, and he realized Sansa was crying. He cursed himself for doing that to her. Still, he didn’t know what to do with any of it, for he didn’t have much experience with weeping women. Unable to think of what to say to comfort her, he pulled her into his arms and on top of him. He kissed her on the forehead. 

 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. 

 

“You’re not the one who should be sorry.”

 

“I am. I expect too much.”

 

Jon sighed. “I’ll grow my beard out.”

 

“It’s not about that!”

 

“Yes it is. I want you to visit me at night.”

 

Sansa laughed, and the sound of it warmed him. 

 

“Arya told me I’d hurt you.”

 

Sansa dug her nails into him, “Jon, don’t ever speak of what we do abed with our sister ever again. Talk to Sam. Or… me!”

 

Jon couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t think she’ll let me do it again.”

 

“Good.”

 

The room went quiet again. Even with her upset, it felt good to have her close. He remembered how he’d dreamt of her when he and Arya had been behind the wall, how he’d longed for her without knowing why. “I don’t remember… but when I was gone, I dreamt of you. Wolf dreams. It was so cold, and before I found Arya I didn’t really have anything to hold onto. But at night, I felt you, and I had a reason to keep going.”

 

“Wolf dreams? Like Bran... ”

 

“I was inside of Ghost, and I was here, with you, your hands were on me. And I would see our daughter -- but I didn’t  _ know _ \--”

 

“Part of you remembered.”

 

“Aye.”

 

“Oh, Jon…” Sansa’s voice trailed off, and then she was kissing him, and her hands were reaching for him, and as Sansa stroked his cock, everything felt okay again. 


	14. Sansa

Sansa sat across from Jon as they broke their fast, slyly stealing glances at him as she nibbled on her toast.

 

She hadn’t dared to chance a look at herself in the mirror yet, though she suspected she looked utterly indecent. She knew her bottom lip stuck out plump and red from how many times she’d bitten it as she’d peaked, that her chest had been left with a permanent flush from the scrub of Jon’s stubble, and that a few darker marks lingered on her neck and shoulder, courtesy of his teeth and overeager kisses, not to mention the bird’s nest her hair had become. 

 

Jon looked rather rumpled himself, with his own hair in disarray and his breeches barely tied around his waist, and she’d noted scrapes from her nails down his back when he’d briefly donned a shirt to summon one of the guards outside to send word to the kitchens that their breakfast was to be brought up to their chambers, both of them ravenous but neither of them wishing to show themselves in the Great Hall in such a state.

 

At least she doubted anyone would notice the difference between the marks she’d left on Jon and the rest of his scars. Unfortunately, she did not think the same would go for her. She gave a resigned sigh at the thought of how she would be wearing high-necked dresses swathed with fur or lace for the foreseeable future, though she also felt a secret thrill over the prospect of concealing the evidence that the prim Lady of Winterfell was not so proper after all.  

 

From the stillness of the keep Sansa suspected a good number of its inhabitants were still asleep, lulled into a stupor by last night’s impromptu festivities. She certainly hoped most of them had been fast asleep and not wandering about the castle, lest they have heard any of the obscene noises she’d made or the sound of the wooden bed scraping against the stone floor as Jon had fucked her like a wolf and in other ways she’d blush to say aloud.

 

Quite the opposite of her, Jon now dug into his own food with gusto, shoveling down his toast and digging into the eggs and oats that had also been sent up. He’d had little to eat at the feast the night before, and then their activities had surely exhausted him.

_Well, it’s not as though he was_ completely _starved,_ Sansa thought wickedly, remembering how Jon had looked beneath her as she’d straddled his face and he’d licked up between her legs. The mere memory brought a flush to her cheeks again.

 

Jon chose that moment to glance up and catch her staring. Both of them laughed.  

 

“Pardon my manners,” he said, wiping the crumbs from his face as he smiled.

 

“No apology needed,” she said, grinning back and pushing the rest of her own food towards him, which he accepted with a grateful nod. Now that the heat he’d stoked last night stirred in her belly again, it had replaced any sort of hunger she may have felt. Instead she reached for the stack of missives they’d received that morning, ravens from across the North, asking if Winterfell needed any extra hands, requesting food or coin, inviting the king and queen to make the journey to visit now that winter had begun to wane. Perhaps talk of that sort of mundanity would help cool her blood.  

 

She sorted through the messages, putting aside those that could be dealt with later and choosing a few of interest to read aloud while Jon finished his breakfast. “Lord Manderly reports an increase in the number of trading galleys arriving in port from Braavos and the other Free Cities.”

 

“Good to hear.” Jon hardly spared the parchment a glance as she passed it across the table to him.  

 

“Alys Karstark writes the rebuilding at Rimegate has nearly been completed, and that some of the Thenns have returned to the Wall to join them in manning it.”

 

Jon nodded, his mouth full this time.

 

“And another one inquiring about your hand.” Jon tossed that correspondence directly into the fire.

 

“That reminds me,” she said airily, so as not to cause any alarm. “Yesterday I discussed the prospect of courting Arya with Lord Rickard. I think they would be an apt match, no?”

 

“Aye, indeed.”

 

When not even the mention of Rickard Forrester could provoke a reaction from Jon, Sansa followed the line of his stare to where it fell not on the scraps of parchment laying before him or the dregs of his breakfast, but to where her breasts spilled out from between the two undone buttons at the top of her shift.

           

“Jon,” she said sharply. “Are you listening?”

 

He had the decency to at least look slightly abashed when he tore his gaze away from where it lingered. “Sansa, did you mean what you said last night? About the babe?”

           

Sansa blinked. Did it worry him, her impulsiveness? It hadn’t been fair exactly to ask him in the heat of the moment, and perhaps after a night’s sleep he felt differently…

           

But then Jon grinned, and her fears evaporated. “Perhaps it is time again to work on that particular bit of official business.” 

           

“You already have an heir. Two, in fact, if you count our sister Arya,” Sansa said reminded him, but she felt a flutter in her belly as she shared in his excitement.

           

“Yes, but our sweet daughter deserves a sibling, don’t you think? Someone close in age, someone to play monsters and maidens with… someone else with whom to share that pack of wolf pups. Perhaps a brother to protect her as I promised you once—sorry, erase that last one,” he cringed. “Gods, I’m bad at this.”

 

Sansa laughed though, and she mulled over the words she’d always held onto but never dared to speak aloud before she said softly, “I always did wish for a son named Robb… or an Eddard.”

 

Jon dropped his spoon beside her half-finished bowl of oats and came around to draw her out of her seat and urge her up onto the table, pushing aside the rest of the food, the utensils, and the bits of parchment in his haste.

 

“I would love that,” he said, kissing over the bruises he’d left on her collarbone and sliding the straps of her shift out of the way.    

 

She let him lean her backwards, the hem of her shift riding up as she did. The cool air provided a bit of relief from the heat that had gathered between her legs at his words.

 

“Are you still ready for me from last night?” he asked, moving aside her smallclothes so his fingers could tease apart her folds and skim over the wetness between them.

 

She bit her lip as he moved his hand to brush against her clit, increasing the pressure with each stroke. It was nothing less than the truth when she told him, “Always.”

 

Jon widened his stance, driving her legs further apart. His stomach quivered as she ran her hands down it to loosen the laces of his breeches and push them down his legs. His cock sprang free, and she wrapped her fingers around him, his skin hot and soft as slid her hand down his length while he unbuttoned her shift to her waist, squeezing her breasts and smoothing over her belly.

 

She tilted her hips and he slipped into her easily, without any kind of the soreness he’d apparently worried himself over. It always felt so _right_ whenever they came together like this, and she was certain Jon felt the same way too. No matter what his mind remembered, this connection between them had never changed.

 

She knew Jon enjoyed watching her come apart beneath his touch, but now it was her turn, him having his more than twice over last night. She watched as his dark eyes roamed her exposed skin, sweat beading at his brow, how the muscles in his arms worked to hold her legs wrapped around his waist.

 

Sansa felt herself start to tighten around him, the promise of another moment of pleasure just slightly, infuriatingly eluding her until Jon reached down between her legs, and then she was crying his name. A minute later she felt him spill, and she crossed her ankles behind his back, locking him against her.

 

“I could spend the day here, just like this,” Jon murmured, gently thrusting again, his cock barely having softened despite his peak as if to prove his words true.

 

She squeezed her cunt around his length again, and he grunted, his fingers digging into her hips. “And what would you tell your court then?”

 

His words came thick and slow as he sought to slow his breathing. “Training is cancelled. Debts are cancelled. Winter is cancelled.”

 

She laughed, and he seemed to enjoy how her body fluttered around him by the way he groaned again.

 

“I would like that,” she whispered, her hand stroking through his hair, the thought of no war, no sickness, no famine and her days filled with Jon, his love, and their happiness as alluring as her dream of spring.

 

 

 

 

The song of steel seemed to not bother baby Arya one bit as Sansa stood on the ramparts and watched Jon, Gendry, Podrick, Arya, and a host of other men and the odd woman practicing their swordsmanship below in the training yard. Of course, her daughter had probably become long accustomed to the sound of metal clashing against metal throughout her sojourns with her aunt, whether Sansa liked it or not. Even though her sister was a story below and across the court, Sansa could practically hear her argue that it was best for Arya to start learning about the ways of the world at a young age, including how to defend herself.

 

She witnessed Arya’s own such skill on display now, as she swiftly backed Gendry into a stone wall, his steps slow and lumbering compared to her quick ones as she danced around him. Sansa suspected though that the blacksmith was putting little force behind each of his cuts, and while his bull helm guarded his face, she also suspected he was grinning beneath it. Gendry yielded then, and Sansa turned her attention for a moment back to her daughter and the pack of wolf pups surrounding her on the furs at her feet.

 

Ghost and Nymeria usually took charge of them, but they had gone off to keep Bran company by the heart tree in the godswood, leaving Sansa and Arya to keep an eye on the mischievous lot. Her daughter sat in the center, rolling a ball for them to fetch and bring back, giggling every time it worked and squealing with glee whenever they would lick her face in between.

 

They had grown quickly, not as fast as the direwolf pups had long ago, but quick enough that soon they would be of a proper size and quite the handful. Arya seemed to have no problem with them, though. Any time one of the pups got out of hand, she’d bitten them on the ear and they had submitted, and now they seemed to revere her as a leader of sorts. Sansa thought they would be grown and swift just in time for their daughter to take her own first steps.

 

Arya, too, had grown so much in the little time Jon had been home. She was a far cry from the newborn Sansa had held in the darkness of deep winter, wondering if they would live, if Jon was still somewhere out there, if her daughter would ever have the chance to meet her father and know that he was as brave and gentle and strong as her own had been. Although she lamented Jon’s missing memories, Sansa was glad her daughter would never recall those days they had lived in fear and loss had been all too common. Jon would always be a constant in Arya’s life, and she would never remember the long nights without him, or know how fiercely Sansa had missed him, how she’d sung songs of hope and summer as she stroked over her belly, how she’d fretted when her birthing pains had begun and there had still been no word for him in many a moon.

 

She found herself grateful though that at least Jon had evidently been spared his recollections of those dire times. Sansa had no doubts that he’d carried his own fears every time he went into battle, each encounter he had with the white walkers, whenever the snows deepened and he was brought further away from Winterfell. If those burdens had been relieved forever, so be it. Even if Jon could not truly remember before, he was still very much the man she had married before he’d gone off to war, the kind of husband she’d always wished for. And even more, he still desired her and wished to build their family, that much was clear.

 

Sansa flushed thinking about her bold suggestion to Jon last night and how he had responded to the task with such dedicated vigor this morning. She hadn’t meant to let the words tumble free, but once she had, she did not regret them nor wish to take them back, especially if it meant Jon indulging in his lust for her at all hours of the day. The idea that soon her daughter may have another playmate besides her wolf pups filled her with excitement, and it made her heart feel even more full that now Jon could share in all of those things he had missed before with her.

 

“Lady Sansa, lovely to see you this afternoon.” Rickard Forrester strode up beside her, and Sansa was reminded that soon perhaps her family would soon be expanding in other ways as well.     

           

He smiled brightly the way he always did. Sansa could easily believe that that grin made many a maiden go weak in the knees; it certainly would have had such an effect on the girl she’d been before she’d left Winterfell to go south to King’s Landing. Unlike so many of the boys who had bewitched her then, Rickard also possessed a sense of kindness and honesty to go along with his handsome face and fancy clothes. Perhaps once this would have been the kind of man she wished to marry, but when she heard Jon’s voice, instructing the men in the courtyard, she knew she’d chosen right.

 

“You as well, Lord Rickard. Shouldn’t you be out there training too?” she teased.

           

He shook his head, the feather in his cap bobbing. “No, I’ve retired from war now that our foes have been vanquished.”

           

“Fair enough,” she said. “I’ve never taken up a sword myself, but I’ve still had enough to last a lifetime.”

 

“And besides, it looks like I’ll have no need to don mail or sword with Lady Arya around.” Rickard gestured towards her sister.

           

They turned just in time to watch Arya slash fiercely against Jon, forcing him back and further backward before he found a way to snake free, or more like Arya permitted him to.

           

“Very true,” she said. “Though perhaps it might be enjoyable to spar against her?”

 

Baby Arya’s squeal interrupted, as though she knew of her aunt’s victory down below, and Lord Rickard bent down to pet the pups and muss her hair—or attempt to, rather. Quick as a wolf, Arya reached out and bit Lord Rickard’s wrist, giggling when he yelped.

 

While she knew she should find herself aghast at her daughter’s behavior, Sansa couldn’t help but laugh, and once she started, she found she couldn’t stop, her peals even drawing the attention of a few fighting below.

 

“Don’t worry, it just means you’re part of her pack now,” she said once she managed to control herself as Lord Rickard rubbed away the marks of Arya’s tiny teeth.

 

“No harm done,” he said, chuckling himself as he watched Sansa still trying to suppress giggles. “It is truly a joy to see you so happy.”

           

“Thank you,” she said, giving him another one of her smiles that had been so rare in the dead of winter. “I hope that you are happy here in Winterfell as well. I am so pleased you decided to stay with us until the spring.”  

 

“I am,” he said, though he shifted and his smile faltered. They had always shared a degree of comfort with one another in their conversations, which made his hesitance now seem especially strange.

 

“Is something the matter?”  

 

Lord Rickard had also always been unfailingly polite, so it took her aback when he said, “I know it is not my place, but if I may be so bold to ask you, my lady… is King Jon pleasing to you?”

           

Sansa bit back a sound as Jon paused training to tie up his hair, wipe the sweat from his brow, loosen the laces at the top of his shirt and roll up his sleeves, her eye catching on his glistening muscles as he took up his sword again. “In every way,” Sansa assured him.

 

“I hope that… all of the areas of your marriage are so pleasing,” he said carefully. “Particularly those of the, erm, intimate variety.”  

 

Her cheeks flamed with the memory of all the ways Jon had fucked her over the past half a day. If it were anyone else asking, she may have rebuked them for being too forward, but her and Lord Rickard had discussed many an issue of survival, succession, and more during the war, so she replied, “Indeed, very much so. Especially so.”

 

Rickard’s face seemed as red as hers when he continued on, “Forgive me, but I noticed your outfit this morning… and there were sounds last night… and I feared perhaps some harm had come to your person at his hands.”  

 

If the air outside was not so frigid, Sansa would have melted into a puddle of embarrassment on the spot, and even now only the chill of the lingering winter wind prevented a flustered sweat from breaking out across her skin. “Fortunately you are quite mistaken, Lord Rickard. I apologize for causing you any worry,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I often find myself rather… uninhibited when abed with my lord husband.”   

           

Lord Rickard seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. “Good to hear. Not the sounds, I mean, the other part about… well, you know what I intend.”

 

“I do,” she said, sweeping her daughter into her arms to help deflect attention from the way she didn’t think she would be able to look Lord Rickard again in the eye nor anyone else who had wandered the halls of Winterfell the previous evening. “And thank you for your concern and your honesty, Lord Rickard.”

 

“In that case, I hope to be as good of a husband one day to Arya as Jon is to you,” he said in earnest as he removed his hat and wrung it between his fingers before he bowed and took his leave.

 

Arya squealed happily again, and Sansa glanced down to see Jon looking up at them. He smiled handsomely despite the mud that now streaked his cheeks and raised his hand in a wave, and Sansa descended the staircase to join him in the yard, the wolf pups scampering along behind her.

 


	15. Arya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this has taken a month and a half to put out... I've been very busy since starting graduate school, so thanks to everyone who's stuck with this story! Especially my wonderful writing partner!!

“You could try to impress her at the tourney,” Bran said as Podrick wheeled him into the courtyard. Podrick nodded, as though it was excellent advice. 

 

“What tourney?” Arya asked, looking up immediately. 

 

“Oh, hello Lady Arya,” Podrick said, smiling nervously. Arya ignored him, eyeing Bran inquisitively. Behind her, Gendry grunted stupidly at Podrick. Their feud grew more annoying by the day and Arya refused to acknowledge it. 

 

Bran looked at her in the same way he often looked at her now. As though he was somehow disappointed that she didn’t already know what he was talking about, but was still smug to be able to point out what exactly it was. “I’m hosting a tourney. Would you like to compete? Podrick, write Arya down for the melee.” Behind Bran, Podrick diligently scribed Arya’s name onto a list. 

 

“You can write me down too,” Gendry said from behind her.

 

“If you think that’s a good idea,” Bran said with a sigh.  

 

“Why are you hosting a tourney?” Arya asked, still stuck on that. They’d never had one at Winterfell before, and Arya doubted Bran had attended any north of the wall. What did he know about event planning? “Does Sansa know about this?”

 

“It’s a surprise. Podrick, take me to the kitchens. I need to talk to them about their lemon supply.”

 

Arya wanted to ask more questions, but before Bran could tell her the date of his secret tournament, his eyes slipped back into his head. Arya sighed. Her brother was always doing that these days. 

 

“Fancy another go?” Gendry asked from behind her, that same sweet hope in his voice that always made her heart skip a beat. 

 

“Aye,” Arya said, turning around to face him, needle in hand. “You need all the practice you can get.”

 

She could get lost in her needlework, even when her opponent was as slow as Gendry. Syrio Forrel had taught her well. Soon her namesake would be old enough to get a dancing master. It was best to start young, after all, to teach balance and discipline. Arya wondered if Sansa knew that water dancing was fighting, for their father had kept her in the dark for all those months of training, and they had never spoken of that time. Arya laughed, wondering how long her daughter could come home with bruises before Sansa suspected something was afoot. 

 

“What’s so funny?” Gendry asked, out of breath and suspicious. 

 

“I was just wondering how old little Arya will have to be before she’s able to take you too…”

 

“Your sister will raise her a proper lady, I’m sure. So at least ten.”

 

Arya laughed, distracting Gendry and giving her an opening. She pressed needle’s tip to his leather armour. She didn’t want to hurt him, so she was gentle in her victory and didn’t sink her blade into his heart. “You’re dead,” she said instead.

 

“You wouldn’t kill me, though.”

 

Arya shrugged, but it took almost everything inside of her not to smile. “Not today.” She didn’t like how soft he made her feel. Arya turned her back on him, and walked out of the courtyard. She didn’t turn back to look, but she felt his eyes upon her as she walked away. She still wasn’t sure if she liked that.

 

She pulled her gloves off as she walked through the halls. She wouldn’t admit it to Gendry, or to anyone else, but she was a bit overheated. Gendry was getting a lot better at sparring, and she’d actually had to try today. She wasn’t ready to show anyone that weakness yet, she may have spent months back at Winterfell but she hadn’t been domesticated yet. Still, as wild as Arya was, she couldn’t help but make her way to the nursery. She hadn’t seen her niece  all day, and she missed her dearly. 

 

When she opened the door, she found Old Nan asleep on her rocking chair and Sansa standing over little Arya’s bassinet. 

 

“I was just putting her to sleep,” Sansa whispered, a delicate smile creeping onto her face. “I was about to come looking for you.”

 

“What for?” Arya whispered back, suspiciously.

 

“Let’s go to my solar,” Sansa whispered, “I don’t want to wake either of them.”

 

Arya followed her sister in such perfect silence that Sansa had to turn around a few times to check if she was still there. Undoubtedly it creeped Sansa out as much as it creeped Gendry out, but slipping around as quietly as a mouse had served Arya well, and old habits die hard. 

 

“Take a seat. Is there anything I can offer you, sister? Tea? Wine?”

 

“No, I’m fine.”

 

“Alright then,” Sansa sucked in a breath, “I know you’re still recovering from your long journey home, but I think it is well past time you contributed to your house.”

 

“Contributed to my house? Sansa… I’m too young to have a child, and I do not wish --”

 

“No, no, don’t worry on that front. I only mean your duties as a Princess of the North, to serve the smallfolk and ensure the loyalty of our bannermen and smallfolk. We just suffered a harsh winter, something I’m sure you know as well as I do.”

 

“What is it you want from me?” Arya asked tentatively. She loved her sister, but Sansa had very strange ideas about the world, and even now Arya did not entirely trust her.

 

“The smallfolk really look up to you, and they’ve had a hard time. I thought you could ride out to Castle Cerwyn to give some cheer to the townspeople.”

 

This did not seem like such a terrible request. Despite how happy Arya was to be home, she was feeling a little claustrophobic stuck in one place for so long. She’d like to see more of her home… she loved the North, but she had spent most of her life away from it. “I could do that,” Arya offered. “When are they expecting to me?”

 

“You can ride out at first light. I thought Lord Forrester could accompany you.”

 

“Lord Forrester? Why?”

 

Sansa shrugged, but Arya could tell she was up to something. She usually was, if she wasn’t busy making out with their brother. 

 

“I can handle myself, Sansa.”

 

“Oh, of course you can!” Sansa smiled at her strangely, “I just don’t think it’s proper for a lady of your stature to ride out unaccompanied. Besides, it’ll be company for the ride.”

 

Arya sighed. “Fine, I suppose he can come if he wants to.” 

 

Arya had every intention of leaving before Lord Forrester woke up. Rickard Forrester was an awkward man who seemed to stop at nothing to impress either Jon or Sansa. His entire existence gave Arya secondhand embarrassment. But though Arya made it to the stables before sunrise, Nymeria at her side, Lord Forrester waited for her in the dark courtyard, already mounted. 

 

“Lady Arya,” he said, taking off his hat and bowing to her from atop his horse.

 

Nymeria looked at her in concern, but Arya pat her head in comfort. Strange as he was, this man was not her enemy. “I didn’t expect to see you here so early, Lord Forrester.”

 

Lord Forrester smirked. “Please, call me Rickard. I must confess, I hoped to surprise you… Sansa told me you enjoyed being snuck up upon…”

 

It was Arya who liked to do the sneaking, but she nodded anyway, and hopped up on her horse. It was true that she liked to be kept on her toes, but Rickard had gone too far in revealing the game he was playing. Of course Sansa had been up to something -- she was pawning her former suitor off on her! 

 

When they returned home, Arya would tell her sister that she had no intention of marrying… only, she wasn’t so sure about that anymore. She’d always thought Sansa’s love of children and fantasizing about her future husband was silly, and that marriage would be a burden. But she had fallen in love with Little Arya, and she had lately realized she wouldn’t mind having her own little Stark. 

 

“Nymeria, with me,” Arya called, and she kicked her horse. Her horse whinnied and raced out to the courtyard, her wolf on her tail. The guard opened the door, and then Arya was galloping in open country. Though the temperature had come up, there was still soft snow falling. Arya flipped up the hood of her cloak and kicked her horse again. Perhaps she could outrun Rickard Forrester’s awkwardness. 

 

By the time day had broken, Rickard had caught up with her. He was panting, and was clearly struggling to keep up with her. 

 

“Has it been awhile since you’ve been on a horse?” Arya asked, stopping to take a sip of water from her leather bladder. 

 

“I must admit, I lack a classical lord’s education…” Lord Forrester said.

 

“Did your lord father lose his horses in a game of dragons?” Arya could not think of anything more elementary to the education of a lord or lady. How would one lead an army if he could not sit a horse?

 

“No, no, my father was not a gambler. He was Lord Bolton’s fletcher.”

 

“Fletcher?” Arya asked, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Aye, he fletched arrows for the flayed men. He thought I would continue the craft, but I could not abide Lord Roose and his bastard son and what they were doing to my people.”

 

Arya pressed her brows together, reassessing what she knew of Lord Rickard. “You do not dress how a commoner ought to dress,” Arya said, at last, with a bit of suspicion. Clearly Lord Rickard was no different than any of the other ambitious young men she’d met. 

 

“My mother was Lord Bolton’s seamstress, and she would have me stand as her dress form after Lord Ramsay ruined the original with a sword, so I’m used to wearing more feminine clothing… I would wear Lady Fat Walda’s dresses before she ever did,” Rickard smiled wistfully, as if recalling happier days. “Your sister, Lady Sansa, tells me you too crossdressed for a time?”

 

“Well, I had to pretend to be a boy for a bit, yes…” Arya admitted. “And your parents? Are they at the Dreadfort now?” Arya asked, but she knew the answer before it was given. 

 

“No, the bastard of Bolton had them killed for aiding some of the Stark prisoners.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Arya said. She held out her bladder, offering him some water. Rickard shook his head and took out his own bladder, drinking from it. He offered it to her, and she drank. She almost spat it out, but she managed to swallow it down. “What is this?” she asked incredulously, not able to discern what kind of alcohol the bladder was filled with.

 

“Goat’s milk. Some wildling drink, I got a taste for it.”

 

Arya took another sip. It was surprisingly good, though it tasted off. Her body almost seemed to enjoy the tartness of the fermented milk. “So how did you become Lord Forrester?”

 

“Me and my kinsmen took to the woods after my parents were murdered. I could fletch an arrow as good as any man, and the Bolton’s seemed more concerned with taking Winterfell than holding their prisoners. So we stormed the castle and saved those who still had a little life left in them. There were piles of dead bodies waiting to be buried or burned, but what was worse was the living.” Rickard looked off into the distance as if he was imagining the scene play out all over again. 

 

Arya wouldn’t press him more. She knew what it was like to be a prisoner… she had been held as a slave in Harrenhall and seen all sorts of depravities, after all. 

 

“They had been tortured and starved, and some were near death. But some lived on, and they’re still with us. Your Old Nan was among the living.”

 

“Old Nan can survive anything,” Arya said with a wry smile. “Nobody knows how old she is, you know.”

 

“I’ve heard it said she’s a child of the forest,” Rickard confessed. He was grinning from ear to ear now, no doubt happy that Arya was finally giving him the time of day. 

 

Perhaps Arya could see what Sansa saw in her male companion now too. Odd as he was, he was a survivor, just like the Starks were. No doubt he’d make a good vassal. 

 

“We can go slower for the rest of the ride, if you’d like. So you can practice riding.”

 

“Thank you, Lady Arya. You are kind… but I don’t want to hold you back. I need to learn somehow.”

 

So the two of them sped off along the trail. By midday, the snow had stopped falling and the forest path was lit by the sun. It was almost warm, and Arya couldn’t help but enjoy herself. Rickard was so out of breath he rarely talked, but when he did he revealed strange stories of life in the Bolton forest, and how he would distract her sister by modelling embroidery designs when Jon was off at war. It was unfortunate that Rickard had to go and fall in love with Sansa, but then, Arya probably would have preferred Sansa marry the strange lord of the dreadfort rather than their own brother…

 

They stopped for a lunch of pea and chicken pie and ale. Rickard insisted on lighting a fire to warm up the crust, “and my lady’s hands must be cold…”

 

Arya did not mind the break. She was weary from travel, for she hadn’t spent so long on a horse in ages. She stretched her back and her arms, hoping her ass would stop aching. She only stepped away from Lord Forrester for a moment, just to stretch her legs, but in the few minutes she was gone she heard a shriek. Arya raced back to the camp, needle drawn, but Rickard and the horses were gone. Only Rickard’s green feathered cap remained on the ground by the fire, even the pies Old Nan had made them had disappeared.

 

She picked up the cap and handed it to Nymeria to smell. “Can you find them, girl?” Arya asked, looking her direwolf in the eyes. Nymeria always seemed to know exactly what she wanted, and she took off running after the trail. Two or three minutes later, Arya heard some screams, and some horses whinny,and then silence. Nymeria returned wagging her tail with Rickard Karstark seated on his horse, covered in blood. 

 

“Your horse ran off, I’m afraid,” Rickard said, clearing his throat. 

 

“It’s alright, we can share,” Arya said. She passed him his cap, and he took it gratefully. He offered her a hand, and she hoisted herself onto the horse. She took the reins from him, to his surprise. “Just hold me, I won’t let you get hurt, I promise,” she said as she kicked the horse and they took off flying down the path. Nymeria kept pace with them, gaurding them from any other bandits they could encounter. 

 

“She’s quite the beast,” Rickard said.

 

“I know.”

 

“And you… you saved my life.”

 

“I doubt they would have killed you. Once they figured out who you were, they would have decided to ransom you.”

 

Rickard cleared his throat, still holding onto her tight. “Lady Arya, clearly you know the purpose of this trip. You could not be so blind as to think I was truly meant to be your guard. So let us speak plainly now. I am in love with you.”

 

Arya nearly lost control of the horse in that instant. “In love with  _ me? _ Don’t you mean in love with my sister? You confessed as much in front of everyone barely three moons ago!”

 

“That was… misguided of me. Since Lady Sansa told me of your virtues, I have kept a keen eye upon you. Clearly you’ve noticed my attempts to speak to you and win your favour.” 

 

She had not noticed them, actually. She had been too busy nursing her own feelings for somebody else. Arya gritted her teeth, unsure of what to do in such an odd situation. She knew she did not blame Rickard for it, but Sansa. Sansa had decided Arya couldn’t find anybody to marry her except the men she’d already cast aside. Did Sansa really think so little of Arya’s charms or beauty? Arya thought they two of them had moved on from their childish drama.

 

“Lord Rickard, I…”

 

“And now you’ve saved my life! I did not realize how little time I had until I had been taken from you. But Nymeria saw the truth of it -- I could see in her eyes that she knew we were meant to be.”

 

“I told Nymeria to find you,” Arya clarified.

 

“Oh, Arya!” Rickard sighed in some sort of ardour. “You do not have to answer right away, but I must let my feelings be known. Life is short, and anything could happen. I would like for you to be my wife, and to be the Lady of the Dreadfort.”

 

Lady of the Dreadfort? Nothing sounded less appealing to Arya.

 

What would Sansa say in this situation? Surely she’d dealt with a lot of proposals. And Arya was supposed to be some Great Lady nowadays. She wanted to run away, but she imagined Septa Mordane was watching over the exchange. “Lord Forrester, you do me a great honour, but I must admit that I am already engaged to another man.”

 

“Another man?” Rickard asked, behind her his voice broke. His grip on her loosened, but Arya wanted this trip to be over so she did not slow the horse. “Your sister did not tell me you were engaged…”

 

“It’s a secret,” Arya confessed, “until I’m of age to marry.”

 

“Oh, well if you change --”

 

“I’m quite in love, I must admit. So I will not. But I thank you for your offer, Lord Forrester. We can ride in silence, if you like.”

 

Rickard did not respond, and Arya was glad she did not have to look upon his morose face for the rest of the journey. 

 


	16. Sansa

“Oh, and please remember to bring the lemoncakes!” Sansa called as she left the kitchens to return to her solar. 

She couldn’t believe she’d nearly omitted those, but when she took a moment to think about it, it made sense she’d almost forgotten about her most favorite treat. She could scarcely remember to take the time to eat these days, so filled were they with tourney preparations. Bran might have been able to see into the future, but he paid little attention to the details hosting a tourney entailed and had even less knowledge of how to go about actually executing them. 

Bran, Arya, and Jon assured her no one would care about what images graced the banners that hung on the walls of the Great Hall or what wine was served at the feast, but she rolled her eyes at that. They were things she would have noticed when she was younger, when finery and festivities had seemed to be the pinnacle of what life had to offer, things she knew wealthy lords, high-born ladies, and those looking for any excuse to judge would see too from her time at court in King’s Landing. It wouldn’t do for Winterfell to be seen as any less than the seats of the other kingdoms, and she wished for those visiting to pay witness to the unique kind of beauty the North offered. 

She hadn’t minded for the most part though, enjoying the feeling of losing herself in the excitement of planning and preparations the same way she had once as Alayne in the Vale. And at least Bran had been helpful in keeping watch over baby Arya while she flitted about making arrangements. 

Her daughter had also become quite the tiny menace now that she could stand. She was more than capable of holding herself up and walking with the aid of something sturdy to balance against, making her almost unmanageable by the fact she had a ready-made accomplice to go anywhere in her wolf pup, who would brace himself for her to guide along wherever she wished. More than once that had ended up being places less than ideal, as Sansa had caught her tottering towards the hot pools in the godswood, Jon had been forced to suspend training as she meandered into the training yard, and Arya had once caught her on her way to the forge. She was turning out to be nearly as intractable as her aunt, and already Sansa missed the days of when she had been happy to lay peacefully in her arms, finding it perfectly agreeable to snuggle safely against her chest instead of wishing to cavort about the castle. 

And as for her sister Arya, while she had not taken to Lord Rickard the way Sansa had hoped, her attitude towards him had indeed changed since their ride to the Cerwyns. She seemed to tolerate him, even going so far as to offer smiles at his japes and compliment his fancy clothing. Sansa had even caught Arya with him in the training yard, where she usually reserved her time for training sessions against more formidable foes such as Jon or that blacksmith Gendry or even Podrick, providing him with tips to quicken his footwork and improve his swordsmanship. When Sansa had asked Arya what changed her mind, Arya had simply shrugged and said, “He’s not so bad after all.” 

Sansa suspected there was more to the story, though. She recalled how Lord Rickard had returned from their ride that day nearly in tears, both from fright at having been the target of bandits and in despair over Arya’s rejection. While she had not been entirely surprised by the latter, Lord Rickard’s next words had truly shocked her when he told her of Arya’s secret engagement and swore her to secrecy. Sansa had kept her end and not spoken a peep to Arya, but that curiosity had also consumed her over the past weeks, and she eagerly awaited the arrival of her old friend Myranda Royce for further discussion 

Like many of the lords and ladies of their lands, Lady Myranda had made her way to Winterfell for the tourney. As Myranda had played a large part in the distraction that allowed Sansa the opportunity to escape the Vale, there had not been much of an opportunity for any sort of proper farewell or any way for her to thank her friend, so Sansa had been thrilled to welcome her here and catch up with her after all this time. Knowing that Myranda possessed a sharp tongue and an exceptional ability to suss out the truth, Sansa looked forward to seeing what she made of the situation that had arisen. 

She had just a few minutes to freshen up, set the table, and arrange their afternoon tea and snacks before Myranda herself appeared amidst a flurry of hugs and kisses. 

Her friend had arrived up the kingsroad just yesterday, yet her hair still fell in perfect waves down to her shoulders and her velvet dress made her look as buxom as ever. 

“How have you settled in?” Sansa asked as she poured tea and divided up little slices of lemon to put in each cup. 

“Oh, it’s been lovely!” Myranda gushed. “The North is just beautiful. And Winterfell! What a wonderful home you have.” 

Myranda babbled on about all the places she’d been off to admire so far as Sansa placed the lemoncakes onto plates, about the array of flowers in the glass gardens, about the warmth of the steaming hot pools and the stunning heart tree in the godswood, about the grandness of the Great Hall and all the potential its space held for merriment. 

“And then there’s your lord husband too, of course.” 

“What about him?” Sansa glanced up to catch her wink, and she felt her own cheeks blush.

“You always get the handsome ones!” Myranda exclaimed. 

“Only Jon,” she said honestly. The last time she had seen Myranda, she may have been dancing in the arms of Harry the Heir, but they had never proceeded beyond exchanging a few chaste kisses. With Jon, though… a knock at the door saved her from going down that train of thought which would surely lead to more of Myranda’s lascivious questions. 

Lord Rickard entered with his customary bow, which she’d long ago told him was unnecessary, and yet he continued to observe his courtesies all the same. She had to admit she found it rather endearing. 

“Thank you for joining us,” Sansa said by way of greeting. “Lord Rickard, this is my dear old friend, Lady Myranda Royce of the Eyrie. Myranda, let me introduce Lord Rickard Forrester, Lord of the Dreadfort.” 

“It’s delightful to meet you, Lord Rickard,” Myranda said, her eyes twinkling. 

“The pleasure of making your acquaintance is all mine,” Lord Rickard said as he bowed again. 

“Same as I said before, Lady Sansa,” Myranda grinned as she glanced appreciatively over Lord Rickard, the feathered cap he clasped in his hands, and his tight green breeches. 

Sansa took her seat as Lord Rickard hung his cloak and hat beside the door. 

“I don’t think I would have to worry about him dying mid-act,” Myranda whispered. “Though I’m not so sure I would mind either if he did.” 

Sansa spit out the bit of tea she had sipped as she replied with something that was a cross between a gasp and a laugh. “No, I—I don’t suppose you would.”

Myranda’s cheeks turned their own shade of a proper pink as Rickard crossed the room and chose the chair beside her. 

“How was training this afternoon?” Sansa asked.

“Oh! Are you preparing for the tourney?” Myranda interjected.

“Unfortunately no, my lady,” Rickard said. “I’m not much of a knight, and armor is not quite my style. I’ve merely been working with Lady Arya on improving my own self defense.” 

“Oh,” Myranda said, though she infused her voice with such sweetness that no one but Sansa would have known she was crestfallen. 

“I am rather looking forward to the tourney though,” he said. “I’ve been helping Lady Sansa design her outfits for it.” 

Myranda’s interest peaked again. “Truly?” 

Sansa nodded. “Lord Rickard has quite the eye for fashion.” 

“Silly me, I should have known that,” said Myranda, letting her eyes roam over Rickard again while he unsuspectingly drizzled honey into his tea. “It seems rare for a man this far north to display such dashing style. How very brave.” 

Lord Rickard glanced up to meet her smile with one of his own, one of a kind that Sansa had never shared with him before, one that hinted at something perhaps more than friendship.

“Arya should be along any moment now,” Sansa said, both to dispel the awkwardness the conversation had waded into and remind them of her presence right as another series of raps sounded at the door. Grateful for the distraction, she bustled over. “That must be her.” 

She opened the door to find Jon standing there instead. 

“Jon!” she hissed as he pulled her away and shut the door. “I’m entertaining guests!” 

“And I’m entertaining you,” he said, sweeping her into a hungry kiss that made her back arch and her belly flutter. “They can manage on their own, I’m certain.” 

“But what will they think of us, leaving them alone like that?” she gasped, rendered breathless from his kiss. She felt heat stir inside of her that had nothing to do with the tea she’d just consumed.

“I think they’ll know _exactly_ what we are up to,” he said, moving his lips to her neck. “Or at least Myranda will.” 

She giggled, but it soon turned to a moan as he squeezed her breasts before his hands slid to her waist and he maneuvered into an alcove behind a tapestry, which she’d recently had cleaned and replaced in preparation for the upcoming events. 

He wasted no time in starting to hitch up her skirts, both of them cursing the layers of fabric that separated them. She’d heard men could be like this after battle when their blood was up, but Jon had told her he’d had enough war to last a lifetime, so perhaps merely training did it for him instead. Truthfully, though, it was hard to tell the cause given how he usually indulged in ravishing her, but she suspected it might be for another reason as well. 

“I know,” she panted while his hands finally slipped beneath the last of her skirts, “why you’re doing this.” 

“Oh?” He cocked an eyebrow as he finally reached the apex of her thighs and worked to free her from her smallclothes. “And why’s that?” 

She noticed Jon had only seemed to become more possessive of her with each additional arrival, and he had no qualms about making certain each new guest who appeared in Winterfell for the tourney knew it. During their short conversation with Dickon Tarly, brother of his friend Sam, Jon had referred to her as “Queen Sansa, my lady wife” no less than five times, and over dinner he had glared murderously at her cousin Robert Arryn when he wistfully brought up their former engagement and how he used to share Sansa’s bed at night. 

“You want to—oh, _oh,_ ” she sighed, not caring so much anymore about proving herself right and pointing out his preposterousness as his finger slid against her clit before he slipped it into her hot, wet heat.

“I only wish to make up for lost time,” he said, curving his fingers slightly so they pressed against that spot inside of her that made her whine his name. “And is it so wrong I want for my wife to enjoy?”

“I always enjoy,” she said, curling her fingers around his wrist to urge him on. She felt herself clench around him as if to show him lest he disbelieve her words. 

“Even the first time?” he asked, pulling away just far enough so she could look into his grey eyes. Desire warred there with his earnest question. 

She knew he couldn’t remember then, and she understood his worry. Though he’d been gentle, it had been hurried, not unlike now. There’d been no time then for any kind of adventure, no time for secret trysts or to explore one another, no time for anything but just that once beneath the heart tree, and then in the morning he’d been gone. Still, she treasured their wedding night, the night they’d conceived their daughter, as one of her fondest memories. “Yes, even that time. _Especially_ that time.” 

Reassured, he nipped at her neck, and she tilted her hips, feeling the back of her skirt and her hair catch against the rough stone of the wall behind her. Their featherbed was certainly more comfortable, but there was something thrilling about being taken like this. Her breasts strained against the confines of her dress, and she felt herself wind tighter around his hand. “Jon—I want…” 

Jon hurriedly undid the laces of his breeches, and a moment later he pulled his fingers from her and replaced them with his cock. She gasped as he filled her, clutching his shoulders to keep herself upright. 

As much as she loved the feeling of Jon’s warm, naked skin against hers, it was strangely exhilarating to be otherwise fully clothed, the barriers between them making the sensation of his lips on hers, his hands gripping her bottom, the way he felt inside of her all the more intense. 

Here there were none of the slow, gentle touches she’d learned to crave. Instead she tugged at his hair when she felt herself slipping, and with each time he pushed into her, their kisses turned more to a meeting of teeth and tongues. Trusting Jon to hold her and balancing back against the stone wall, Sansa wrapped her other leg around his waist, digging her heel into his backside as he drove into her and feeling his body shudder with a groan as he sought to hold off his peak for her own. 

Knowing he couldn’t let go and risk her falling, she slipped a hand down between them to where they joined and rubbed at herself. Jon’s eyes widened and then darkened when he realized what she was doing to herself, and he quickened his pace again after his momentary lapse. That was all she needed to come undone, pleasure spiking through her as she sagged back against the wall. 

Jon now grunted with each thrust, and she reached into his breeches to cup her hand around his stones. He hissed her named and spilled, collapsing forward against her, his face buried in her hair. 

“I hope that was more satisfying than any tea and lemoncakes ever could be,” he said, twisting to give her a sweet kiss. 

She huffed a laugh as they pulled apart. “You should know that there are few things I love more than lemoncakes, and luckily you happen to be one of them.” 

Slowly, carefully, she disentangled herself from him and placed both feet back on the ground, her breath coming in rather unladylike pants. Far from ever being completely satiated, she did not miss the hunger in Jon’s eyes as he retied her smallclothes before he tucked himself, still hard, back into his breeches and then arranged the long edges of his tunic so it covered anything that might appear suspicious and indecent. 

“Do you really find the northern styles so unfashionable?” he asked, looking skeptical as he adjusted the rest of his clothing while she smoothed over her skirts. 

She smirked. “You were listening in on our conversation?” 

He shrugged. “I think I could’ve heard Myranda’s voice even if I were still out in the yard.” 

“She is rather boisterous,” she agreed. “And I never I said I disliked the northern look.” She drew a hand down his cheek, and he caught it and placed a kiss to her palm. 

“Perhaps I wouldn’t mind so much if you wished to sew me something a bit more… bold,” he said. 

“Oh? And what sorts of things would suit you? Tight-fitting breeches? A deep-necked tunic? A peacocked cloak?” she teased, giggling again imagining Jon in such garb. 

He smiled in reply. “Whatever sorts of things you’d like to see me in.” 

“Nothing too fine in that case,” she said. “I won’t have you dirtying my hard work while you’re out riding and in the training yard.” 

“Right, those are all I ought to worry about,” he said, gesturing towards the places on his leather jerkin where her nails had left marks and where she’d dampened the front of his breeches from writhing against him. 

“I suppose you should be off to change,” she sighed, not sure whether she should be pleased or embarrassed with herself. “And I should return to my guests.” 

He left her with a last kiss, and she walked down the hallway back to her solar, her cheeks burning over the wanton feeling of Jon’s seed seeping into her smallclothes. 

How must she look? It would be clear to anyone she came across that she had not momentarily departed merely to snatch some more lemoncakes from the kitchens or check in on her daughter. 

Sweeping her hands through her hair, she attempted to smooth it over and pin it back the way it had been before Jon had unraveled it. She reached up to see if he’d left an impression of his teeth on her neck, even if he’d smoothed it over with his tongue, and she knew there was nothing she could do about the red flush that colored her cheeks and chest, the result of both her own arousal and the scrub of Jon’s beard. 

Sansa paused one last moment outside the door before she pushed it open, preparing herself to face at the very least Arya’s certain scrutiny over her disheveled appearance. 

Apparently Arya had never arrived, though. But perhaps that was all the better, since Lord Rickard and Myranda sat as close to each other as they could while still maintaining a proper and respectful distance, their tea untouched and surely grown cold by now. Sansa realized it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d come back with her dress torn or if it had disappeared altogether, because her two guests seemed only to have eyes for each other. 

She cleared her throat. “So sorry about that.” 

“Sansa!” Myranda seemed to startle. She looked just as rosy and breathless as Sansa felt, except neither she nor Rickard appeared to have moved an inch except to lean closer across the table, and all of their hair and clothing remained in perfect order. “Lord Rickard was just regaling me with his tales of heroics when he saved the northerners from the Dreadfort.” 

Bemused, Sansa glanced over at Lord Rickard, whose face turned the color of his auburn hair in response to Myranda’s praises. 

Sansa smiled. “You know, Myranda has quite the story of abetting an escape of her own, although she knew me as Alayne then…” 

“Oh! Yes, that’s when I knew we’d become the very best of friends, to be trusted with such an important mission…” Myranda began. 

Sansa sat back and watched as her friend talked on about how they’d fooled Littlefinger at his own games and managed to whisk Alayne away from right under his nose, and Rickard seemed to hang on her every word.


End file.
